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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422286">Stretch Into Eternity, Divine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather'>Elfgrandfather</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>cursed twink hannibal content [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Anal Sex, Artistic Sensibilities, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Firenze | Florence, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Hannibal Lecter is a Tease, Hannibal Lecter is a brat, Hannigram Reverse Bang Challenge, Il Mostro, Inspired by Art, M/M, Murder Husbands, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, References to Fine Art, Semi-Public Sex, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Smitten Will Graham, Top Will Graham, Will Graham is a Mess, it's in the museums but they're empty at the time so u kno, older will graham, sadly jack alana and bev only make flyby appearances, shameless flirting, younger hannibal lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:21:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He was too young to be a full-fledged colleague, but he seemed far too sharply dressed for the sort of grunt work most places would have interns doing. And that name – not Italian, not the way Zangari pronounced it, and evidently he was a stickler for that sort of thing. In a place like the Uffizi Gallery, the crown jewel of Italian museums, a foreign employee with such dedication to his appearance must stick out like a sore thumb, but far from self-consciousness, he emanated the sort of calm Will could only dream of.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Remarkable boy.</i>
</p><p>---</p><p>Will travels to Florence to assist with the investigation into Il Mostro, a serial killer who leaves behind meticulously arranged murder tableaus full of references to local artistic masterpieces. After a chance meeting, he ends up recruiting Hannibal, an affable young intern at a prestigious museum, to serve as an Italian interpreter and art consultant. As their relationship grows in complexity, Will begins to notice uneasy clues about the murderer’s identity.</p><p>(AU where Hannibal is almost twenty years Will's junior, with the dynamics that entails.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>cursed twink hannibal content [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenderKink/gifts">TenderKink</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's my first time participating in the Hannigram Reverse Bang and I really had a blast. I was lucky enough to claim a lovely picture by TenderKink, with a prompt that immediately had me spinning a whole yarn, and pretty soon it got out of control and here we are at a little over 29k. This happens pretty much every time I do an exchange, so I dont know what I was expecting. I've included the beautiful artwork in the relevant part of the story, in Chapter 2. I tried capture the stark black and white visuals in my writing, too. </p><p>I'm surprised it took me this long to write a Will/Hannibal fic where it doesn't just tastefully fade to black once the action starts, but I guess I made up for it here. It's a slow starter, but after a while they can't keep their hands off each other. That good good resolved sexual tension.</p><p>Fair warning, I've been to Rome and Naples (and Sorrento), but not to Florence yet, so this <a href="https://www.visituffizi.org/">extremely detailed Uffizi Gallery website</a>, lists of local dishes and works of art, and Google Maps did most of the heavy lifting. All errors, typos, etc my own. I finished the story only a couple of days before the deadline and I didn't think it was fair to throw this at a beta on such short notice :^(</p><p>Title pulled from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-FKM3eZTO8">One of Us is the Killer</a> by The Dillinger Escape Plan!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roses saturated his mind.</p><p>He was so tired.</p><p>But that was good. Made it easier to slip into unfamiliar skin.</p><p>He closed his eyes. Focused. Then opened them.</p><p>
  <em>A moonless night. The darkness is a cloak, a friend. He drove – had he driven? He must have. Two bodies. Only one was left at the scene. And he isn’t strong. Not through any fault of his own. He’s young. Not quite a boy, but just barely a man.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And already a monster.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So. He drove. Piazzale Michelangelo has a parking lot, no barriers, no cameras. He looks out at the Florentine landscape across the river, lit up to preserve its majesty even at night, reflections turned will-o’-the-wisps in the ripples of the river Arno. He smiles at the copper David on its plinth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s in the trunk. Just one. Bringing both of them would be risky, and he’s careful. Inexperience masked by critical attention to detail, by meticulous preparation. Inside the trunk, a pair of arms, severed around the bicep, and a woman. Alive. There’s a gag in her mouth, but no blindfold, because he wants to see her eyes, and he wants her to see him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To see what he’s going to do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He isn’t strong. She’s been given a muscle relaxant, something to make her easy to transport. It takes less than five minutes to walk to the Rose Garden, to find the smooth, round stone he’s already scoped out as a sacrificial altar. He lays her down. Her eyes are wide open, quiet gurgles escape her lips. She watches him unpack the knife – the <strong>knives</strong>, the bone saw.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He knows she hopes he’ll kill her before the mutilations begin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He won’t.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He –</em>
</p><p>Will Graham grunted as his knees hit the ground. His right leg had turned to jelly, torn him from his channeling. The grass was auburn where blood had dried, inches from where his hand helped stop the fall, and a distinct metallic tang joined the heady smell of flowers at the back of his throat.</p><p>‘You’re okay, Mr. Graham?’</p><p>Rinaldo Pazzi stood at the edge of the garden, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He didn’t make any moves to help Will get up, and neither did any of the police officers milling about the area. With a tight smile, Will staggered to his feet, dusted off his pants.</p><p>‘Tired, Inspector Pazzi. It was a long flight.’</p><p>‘You did not sleep on the way?’</p><p>Will shook his head. Flights were a nightmare at the best of times. Crowded airports made his palms sweat. The all-seeing eye of body scanners made him uneasy, though he had nothing to hide. The stale air of the planes exhausted him without letting him slumber. Add to that the looming murder investigation the second he reached his destination, and it wasn’t easy to kick back and relax. Being dragged straight to the crime scene without even the opportunity to drop off his luggage was just the icing on the cake.</p><p>‘Did you see anything?’ asked Pazzi.</p><p>‘He’s younger than you think.’</p><p>Pazzi scoffed. ‘The killings are precise and experienced, Mr. Graham.’</p><p>‘That’s down to planning. He’s intelligent. Nobody likes dealing with a smart killer. He’s done his research. The <em>cruelty</em> is the point – he doesn’t see his victims as people. At best, they’re tools. Prey. Doesn’t respect them.’</p><p>‘The scene of the crime would suggest otherwise.’</p><p>Will glanced back.</p><p>Gabriela Capitani, twenty-three. A former class clown on her way to completing medical school, with a passion for surfing and photogenic cooking.</p><p>Blood bordered the rock on which she’d been killed, having seeped into the porous surface and splattered on the grass. Forensics showed she’d definitely been alive when her arms were removed, though blood loss snuffed her out mercifully fast. She was positioned on her back, face to her left. Her stumps rested along the length of her body. The other pair of arms (source as yet unknown, though her friend Sabrina Armati went missing the same night Gabriela did) replaced Gabriela’s missing limbs, right hand covering her left breast, left hand modestly resting over her mons. Before being whisked to the Rose Garden, Will had briefly been able to see the body in the morgue, the expression of pure terror etched around Gabriela’s eyes. He’d expected it from the photographs Jack showed him back in Quantico, but it was always far worse in person.</p><p>Fear was a uniting factor in the killings, of which there had been four so-far, assuming Armati’s amputation was also fatal. The first two victims, Violetta Assanti and Vittore Siena, were found about a week apart, on the outskirts of the city. Young, petite.</p><p>Violetta first, clothed body wrapped in a piece of soft dark-blue fabric, hands clasped protectively over her stomach. A halo of brain matter surrounded her head, as though she’d been dropped from a great height. The autopsy revealed a long slit up the abdomen, with missing internal organs, and the early stages of pregnancy. Though the uterus showed signs of having been moved, the fetus remained undisturbed.</p><p>Vittore was found in a similar position, almost hugging himself, lying on his left side. As with the first victim, a crown of brains surrounded his head, and several organs had been removed. Unlike Violetta, however, the killer left a gaping hole in the man’s back, his lungs pulled out and butterflied to resemble morbid wings.</p><p>Frightened, unimaginative, the national press settled on a moniker for the murderer: <em>Il Mostro</em>.</p><p>The Monster.</p><p>The head of the Florentine police called in a favor, based on the long-standing friendship he’d forged with Jack during his time stationed in Italy, because, quite frankly, the local cops were in over their heads. Capitani was the third victim found in such theatrical circumstances, and despite working in a city famed for its cultural heritage, the average detective sorely lacked the imagination necessary to reckon with a criminal of this caliber.</p><p>Which didn’t mean they were particularly grateful to have an awkward, quiet American FBI agent in their midst.</p><p>As if on cue, Pazzi lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, taking no care to avoid blowing the smoke in Will’s face.</p><p>‘You say he does not respect them. But he arranges them with care. It would be more simple to throw them in the Arno. Put them in the rubbish.’</p><p>‘Does an artist need to <em>respect</em> his paints and brushes to create a masterpiece? He only needs to know how to work them.’</p><p>Pazzi frowned. ‘You are calling these crimes – <em>art</em>?’</p><p>‘I’m saying that’s how <em>he</em> sees it.’ Will sighed, rubbed his eyes until colored specks dotted his vision. ‘He doesn’t want <em>easy</em>. He wants <em>spectacular</em>. We’re talking about a man who overachieves. Who knows about the human body. Who doesn’t see all human life as equal – not because humanity is inherently flawed, but because he considers himself in the elite. That’s why he elevates his kills.’</p><p>‘Impressive deductions from such little information, Mr. Graham.’</p><p>Will’s mouth twitched. He couldn’t quite meet Pazzi’s eye. ‘I’m here to help, Inspector.’</p><p>The Italian grunted in acknowledgement, took another drag.</p><p>‘<em>Dirigente </em>Marchegiano says you are among the best in the business. Though you spend more time teaching than working on cases.’</p><p>Unsure how to respond, Will waited for him to continue.</p><p>‘I will be honest, Mr. Graham. I do not believe in your methods. It seems, ah, like magic. But you were sent to me. So I will work with you. But I will not focus my investigation on your imaginations unless you have solid proof.’</p><p>‘I understand. Right now, I’m working from photographs. Memories of memories. There’s only so much I can do.’ Will cleared his throat. It still felt dry and croaky from the flight. ‘I need you to call me as soon as you find the next body. And there <em>will</em> be a next body.’</p><p>The sky was uncharacteristically overcast for a late Italian spring, but the city remained resolutely beautiful. Will wondered if, at night, it looked as he’d imagined while inhabiting the killer’s mind. <em>Piazzale Michelangelo</em> would remain closed to the public a few more days, but perhaps he could leverage his position to stop by and have a look after dark.</p><p>Unlikely.</p><p>‘I will do what I can,’ said Pazzi. ‘Marchegiano believes in you. He will be angry if I do not do as you wish.’ He gestured to an officer nearby, called out a couple of words in Italian, and nodded at Will. ‘We will take you to your hotel, now. Ah.’</p><p>This was accompanied by Pazzi quickly reaching into his inside pocket, from which he retrieved a laminated card bearing Will’s face and picture.</p><p>‘Police ID,’ he explained, pressing the card into Will’s hand. ‘It opens many doors.’</p><p>Will smiled, perfunctory. ‘Thank you.’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li><em>did you remember to eat??</em></li>
</ul><p>Will peered over the top of his phone at the package he’d dropped on the desk. The officer who drove him to his hotel had taken pity on him, and entered halfway through Will’s check-in process, bearing a plastic bag radiating heat and a meaty scent. Dinner.</p><p>He was too tired to do more than kick off his shoes and collapse onto the bed, fully-clothed, for a mercifully dreamless sleep – only to be woken up by a text message from one Beverly Katz.</p><p>With a little noise of effort, he climbed off the bed and inspected the bag. Inside was a sandwich wrapped tightly in tinfoil, still lukewarm. He couldn’t have slept very long. Peeling off the top slice of bread, he noted onion, tomato, a thick green sauce, and some sort of meat he couldn’t readily identify. His stomach growled. Better late than never.</p><p>He snapped a quick picture, which he sent to Beverly along with the word:</p>
<ul>
<li><em>Yeah.</em></li>
</ul><p>Before he could take his first bite, she replied:</p>
<ul>
<li><em>you havent eaten it yet &gt;:( i know its late over there, i know how to use the internet to look up time zones will graham<br/>
</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>I’m eating it now.<br/>
</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>what is it</em></li>
</ul><p>It tasted like beef, though the meat didn’t look like any cut he’d ever seen, soft and slow cooked and nicely spiced. As he described the flavor over text, he had a little pang of affection for the colleague on the other side of the world, on the other side of the screen.</p><p>He liked that Bev <em>cared</em>. She didn’t make him feel awkward, and she wasn’t condescending. Often, he wished there’d be some chemistry between them, the possibility of something more, but perhaps their friendship worked precisely because it was strictly platonic.</p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>How’s Alana?</em><em><br/>
</em>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>idk, busy i guess<br/>
</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>doesn't she send you pics of the pups</em></li>
</ul><p>She was kind enough to be looking after Will’s dogs while he was away, and she did send him some pretty cute photos from time to time, but it wasn’t like with Bev, who wore her heart on her sleeve. It was harder to talk to Alana without visual cues. He never knew what to say. It’s not like he thought they were <em>soulmates</em>. But he liked her. And he was lonely.</p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>can you be a tourist tomorrow</em><em><br/>
</em>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>I'm going to a museum, but it's for work.</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>boo</em></li>
</ul><p>The idea of the murders as art stuck, if not with Pazzi, then with Will. Something about the composition of the crime scenes might lead to a clue. It was better than sitting on his hands until the next body was found, anyway. And it was a chance to take in some of the city, get his bearings.</p><p>Just as he swallowed the last mouthful, halfway through bidding Bev goodnight, she cut him off:</p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>btw i asked brian what he thought that meat was and jimmy told us<br/>
<br/>
</em><em>it’s gnarly<br/>
<br/>
</em><em>cow tripe</em>
</li>
</ul><p>Discomfort tickled his stomach. The idea of offal, after a day of considering dismembered bodies, just didn’t sit very well, particularly the spongy stomach lining that reminded him so much of Vittore’s corpse and its filleted lungs.</p><p>And there was the question of what, exactly, the killer might be doing with his trophy organs.</p><p>Best not to dwell on it, not until he had more concrete proof.</p><p>After bidding Bev goodbye, Will headed to the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went, and all but moaned when the hot shower water hit his back. He felt extra grimy after napping in his outfit, and especially enjoyed the cleansing feeling of his fingers massaging the day’s dirt out of his hair, out of his mind. He’d need a clear head for the next day’s investigations, in the remote case of another body being found – though, truth be told, it was never hard to adopt a killer’s psyche. And this particular killer was intriguing. Frightening.</p><p>Toweling off his dark brown curls, Will squinted at the lights outside his window, architecture blurry without his glasses. The hotel lined the side of a <em>piazza</em>, and his room looked out onto the square. Almost every building in Florence smacked of Renaissance grandeur, and he knew the vague shapes outside were sure to be the sort of majestic European monuments seemingly designed to make him feel very alien and American.</p><p>Was the killer a product of this city? Or had he chosen it as the ideal backdrop to his art?</p><p>Both?</p><p>Will blinked, tossed the towel aside. He switched off the light, settled under the covers of his plush double bed, and watched the shadows on the ceiling as he drifted off to sleep.</p><p>Though he’d never know it, less than a mile away, the killer he sought was doing the same.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Girolamo Zangari eyed Will from top to toe for the third time in about twenty minutes, always with the same disdainfully raised bushy eyebrow.</p><p>It was true that Will had barged into the Uffizi Gallery with very little prior notice, putting his shiny new Italian police ID to good use, but he’d expected a little leniency. He’d only just arrived the day before, and he couldn’t exactly plan around Zangari’s schedule in an investigation where every second counted.</p><p>Instead, he found a man as immovable as the statues under his supervision, and almost as ancient.</p><p>Zangari’s gaze swept over the photographs spread out on his desk. Will had warned him they were disturbing, but the old curator simply sighed and motioned for him to get on with it. So he had. Now, Zangari went back up to Will’s face, irritated that Will didn’t quite meet his eyes.</p><p>‘Mr. Graham,’ he said, in a slow, heavily accented voice, ‘I do not know what you want me to say.’</p><p>‘If these remind you of anything. A particular period, style. Artist, maybe.’</p><p>‘You want me to compare these,’ a quick gesture at the photographs, ‘to the works I have studied my whole life? Art is <em>creation</em>, Mr. Graham. <em>This</em> is disgusting.’</p><p>‘I understand, Professor Zangari –‘</p><p>‘Zan-<em>gah-</em>ri,’ he pronounced, with a visible wince.</p><p>Will smiled, small and polite. ‘I apologize. Mr Zan<em>gah</em>ri. I don’t pretend to know the killer’s background, his reasoning. But I’m sure he chose this city for a reason, and there’s intent in the positioning of those crime scenes. Wouldn’t you agree?’</p><p>The door to the office opened with a small creak, then closed. Zangari didn’t react, so although the thought of an unknown presence behind him made Will’s FBI-trained senses itch, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.</p><p>‘Maybe he chose this place. Maybe he is from here. I do not know what you think you will understand with your questions.’</p><p>‘Everything,’ Will said. ‘I profile criminals. I know art matters to <em>Il Mostro</em>. This isn’t random. There’s a message, and if we can get a step ahead –‘</p><p>‘You profile criminals. I am a curator. My expertise is the work of the masters. I think you also should keep to what you know best. I cannot help you.’</p><p>There was such finality in these words that Will forced himself to look Zangari in the eyes.</p><p>He saw fear.</p><p>Not naked terror, like that frozen on the faces of the corpses he reckoned with. The sort of quiet, sustained fear of someone reaching the end of his life. Of someone who took solace in surrounding himself with objects that would never decay. Of someone who regarded these photographs as blasphemy.</p><p>Will nodded.</p><p>‘Alright. Thank you for your time.’</p><p>‘You are welcome. Hannibal will show you out.’</p><p>Will gathered the crime scene photographs back into his manila folder, then stood and followed Zangari’s gaze toward the exit.</p><p>The first thing Will noted about the young man by the door was the suit. Hannibal was in his early twenties, emphasis on the early, but he wore a handsome slim-fit three-piece suit befitting a much older, sophisticated person. Navy, with a red check pattern complemented by a crimson pocket square and tie – which helped draw attention to the full, ruddy lips currently curled into a polite smile, dark eyes half-hooded over sharp cheekbones.</p><p>His face was captivating, pale and glowing with youth, but it was that mouth that almost made Will blush, singularly feminine in otherwise decidedly boyish looks.</p><p>Mercifully, Will’s face betrayed no emotion. He merely nodded his goodbyes to the curator and followed the young man out. What could he be doing here? He was too young to be a full-fledged colleague, but he seemed far too sharply dressed for the sort of grunt work most places would have interns doing. And that name – not Italian, not the way Zangari pronounced it, and evidently he was a stickler for that sort of thing. In a place like the Uffizi Gallery, the crown jewel of Italian museums, a <em>foreign</em> employee with such dedication to his appearance must stick out like a sore thumb, but far from self-consciousness, he emanated the sort of calm Will could only dream of.</p><p>Remarkable boy.</p><p>
  
</p><p>‘Excuse me, Mr. Graham.’</p><p>They were near the stairs to the halls, almost out of the admin floor, when Hannibal spoke.</p><p>‘Yes?’</p><p>‘May I have a look at those photographs?’</p><p>Will clutched the folder close. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea. They’re pretty, er, rough.’</p><p>‘That’s fine.’ Hannibal smiled. ‘I intend to go to medical school. Very little can shock me.’</p><p>After a moment’s thought, Will handed the folder over, watched as Hannibal delicately opened it and began poring over the pictures. His eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks as he looked, mouth slightly pursed in concentration.</p><p>Will felt something in the pit of his stomach. An itch. There was something deeply striking about this young man, and that made Will uneasy, but there was more. When Hannibal smiled, it didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes. And behind those eyes, Will saw – nothing. None of the torrents of feelings, thoughts, impressions that usually came pouring in, cluttering his head with sound and fury. It was as though a cloak covered Hannibal’s inner workings. It was strange. Alarming.</p><p>Quiet.</p><p>‘Ah,’ said Hannibal.</p><p>Will blinked. ‘Ah?’</p><p>‘I believe I recognize these poses.’ He stepped closer to Will, shielding any passersby from the contents of the folder, to point out the first two victims. He passed the folder over and pulled up his phone.</p><p>‘Do they reference a particular style?’</p><p>‘More than that. A particular painting.’</p><p>Hannibal tilted his screen to expose a high-resolution image of a fresco. Instantly, the poses synced up. Violetta on the right, the Virgin Mary, arms clasped around her middle, face full of trepidation. Vittore on the left, Gabriel edging toward her, sporting wings made up of layers of multi-coloured feathers. And the halos around their heads, just as the brains framed their faces when they were found.</p><p>‘It’s the Annunciation,’ Will murmured.</p><p>‘By Fra Angelico,’ supplied Hannibal. ‘You can find it at San Marco. Beautiful piece.’</p><p>‘That’s why he left her baby behind.’</p><p>‘She was pregnant?’ Hannibal glanced at the folder still open in Will’s hands. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. The loss of a life is sorrowful, but the loss of a wanted child is a tragedy.’</p><p>‘Don’t know that it was wanted.’</p><p>‘That is true. Perhaps better if it wasn’t.’ Eyes back on the screen, now. Hannibal’s voice was deep, sure to mature to oaken richness with age, almost thrumming in Will’s ears with how close they stood. ‘Annunciation paintings were common, but not like this. Angelico’s was a revolution. See the proportions of the figures, the depth of the background? It marks the end of the flat Gothic. The beginning of the Renaissance.’</p><p>‘A birth in more ways than one,’ said Will. ‘And our killer chose it as his opening salvo. Nothing’s left to chance.’ A short pause. ‘Sorry to – Mr. –‘</p><p>‘Hannibal Lecter.’ Another mysterious, opaque smile. ‘You may call me Hannibal.’</p><p>‘Right. Hannibal. This is – really helpful. I’m sorry to ask again, but –‘</p><p>‘I think I know what the third victim refers to.’</p><p>He switched off his phone screen and took a step closer to the stairs.</p><p>‘I can show you.’</p><p>---</p><p>She stood five foot nothing, though the plinth made her look taller, forcing them to look up at her. A woman carved out of white marble, caught coming out of water, covering her nakedness with her arms. Despite the classical beauty of the statue, she seemed almost out of place in the <em>Tribuna</em> gallery. The room served as the octagonal heart of the Uffizi Gallery, wallpapered in blood red velvet, brimming with the museum’s greatest treasures.</p><p>Venus stood alone, a pagan island in the sea of Christian paintings lining the walls. To her left was an older fellow, crouching. To her right, a couple of men in the throes of combat, one pinning the other face down on the ground, naked bodies rippling with muscle, undeniably erotic. Will kept his eyes on the sculpture in front of him. Her pose was a match for the position Gabriela Capitani’s body had been found in, right down to the way the digits were bent, the direction in which she gazed.</p><p>‘What about the arms?’ he asked, casting a sidelong glance at Hannibal.</p><p>‘Venus’s arms were restored in the seventeenth century.’ He pointed to the hand covering her sex. ‘You can tell by the tapering of the fingers. An addition made 1,800 years after her birth. There are many statues in a similar position, but the limbs were the decisive factor for me. It must be a deliberate nod.’</p><p>‘I think you’re right. Shows our man’s no slouch when it comes to art. How many people would know a detail like that?’</p><p>‘It’s not that hard to find out, but I agree. It shows a peculiar dedication.’</p><p>With his face tilted up to observe Venus, the elegant line of Hannibal’s throat was exposed, sloping down his jaw, stumbling over his Adam’s apple, disappearing into the well-starched collar of his powder blue dress shirt. He seemed carved out of marble, too.</p><p>‘What do you <em>do</em> here, Hannibal?’</p><p>‘I am interning under <em>Professore</em> Zangari. I was lucky to be chosen. He is a strict man.’</p><p>‘Seems like it. You must be great at your job.’ He looked back at the sculpture. ‘Identified these pieces straight away.’</p><p>‘Your killer isn’t picking obscure works. Girolamo Zangari would have done the same, doubtless faster.’ Another smile, different, this time. A peek behind the curtain. ‘But yes. I do what I can.’</p><p>Will smiled back. ‘You’ve helped a lot. I appreciate it.’ He paused, hesitating, then held out his hand. ‘I’ll be in town for a while. Can’t imagine what I could offer, but if I can do anything, ask for me at the police station.’</p><p>Hannibal slipped his hand into Will’s and squeezed it in a firm handshake. Will expected his skin to be soft, the palms and fingers of a youth unused to hard work, but there was surprising coarseness, minute scars, fresh enough to be bumpy and palpable.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>‘Actually, Mr Graham…’ Hannibal began, as they took their hands back, ‘<em>Professore</em> Zangari likes to care for his own affairs. He leaves me quite a lot of free time – for which I am thankful – but there is only so much one can do alone after a few months in Florence. Perhaps I could assist you.’</p><p>‘Thanks. Really. But it’s a little too, er, intense for a civilian. Even one who’s angling to be a surgeon.’</p><p>‘Do you speak Italian, Mr Graham?’</p><p>Will paused, then shook his head. ‘A little Spanish. I’m guessing it’s not going to make things easier.’</p><p>‘The older generations don’t like to speak English, even when they know how.’</p><p>Will smiled, self-deprecating. ‘You think Team America’s reputation’s got something to do with it?’</p><p>‘I can’t imagine how,’ Hannibal replied, grinning back. Even stretched taut, his lips were shiny and colourful, the cupid’s bow a clear divot under his philtrum. ‘I’m fluent. I’d be happy to interpret, and help you with any other… artistic clues that may surface. I don’t need payment. I’d just like to observe.’</p><p>‘That’s very generous. But it’s too much. It wouldn’t be fair on you. Lot of pressure.’</p><p>‘I understand. But Mr Graham.’</p><p>Will looked at Hannibal’s face, and that heaviness in his stomach returned. There was something – uncanny about the smoothness of his face, the perfection in every chiseled line and angle, and that veiled gaze that seemed dozens, <em>hundreds</em> of years old. The walls of the <em>Tribuna</em> were replete with paintings of violent religious scenes, of the slaughter of innocents and the persecution of the meek, and Hannibal, from the height of his early twenties, seemed to have stepped straight off a canvas.</p><p>Who was he?</p><p>‘Please think about it. You know where to find me.’</p><p>Will swallowed, dry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Water poured out the boar’s mouth in a steady stream, into the basin at its copper feet. Will watched tourists rub its shiny snout and flank, toss coins into the pool.</p><p>Feral boars would sometimes wander into Wolf Trap, migrating north from the Carolinas. Huge, heaving. Intelligent beady eyes shining among coarse bristles. He never liked shooting them – didn’t like shooting anything – but he worried about his dogs. There was something painfully human about the noises they made, the shudders as they breathed their last.</p><p>He didn’t like to think about it.</p><p>He stirred his coffee, listless. Everything went wrong after he bid the Uffizi Gallery goodbye.</p><p>There were few things more frustrating than trying to interview someone who either didn’t understand you, or didn’t trust you for reasons beyond your control. Along with the language barrier, Will’s countenance seemed to instantly turn the victims’ acquaintances off. His uncertain stance, his avoidant gaze; too Anglo-Saxon, too Calvinist. He’d even had trouble back in Louisiana, from time to time, let alone here.</p><p>Pazzi rounded the evening off with a visit. They sat at the terrace of Will’s hotel bar, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray’s holder.</p><p>‘It’s after work hours,’ said Pazzi, eyeing Will’s glass of sparkling lemon water.</p><p>‘I only drink with meals.’ He pressed his lips into an awkward smile. ‘Bad family history.’</p><p>Pazzi shrugged, took a generous swig of red wine, smacked his lips, and clasped his hands together.</p><p>‘The lead with the artwork is good. It suits your… methods. Your profiling. But I got phone calls from some people around town, about a strange American asking a lot of questions.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe keep to theory unless another body appears. I don’t want you to be in trouble because of a complaint.’</p><p>Will’s cheeks felt hot. It was like being in school, getting chewed out by a teacher for being strange. ‘I don’t want to sit in my room doing nothing.’</p><p>‘There is a lot to see in Florence. You can take it easy,’ Pazzi said, with another shrug. Will didn’t want to dignify that with a response. He just watched the bubbles rise and pop in his glass.</p><p>Even now, the morning after, the encounter weighed on him like a particularly burdensome bag, and that was before he thought about the dreams.</p><p>In his oneiric state, he found himself inhabiting <em>Il Mostro</em>’s skin again. It felt good, being in a younger body, a mind untroubled by nagging ethical questions. Certainty in his superiority, in his skills. He was in the <em>Tribuna</em> at the Uffizi, surrounded by aged canvases slashed through, irreplaceable sculptures reduced to rubble. There were no tools around him, nothing but his hands. But he’d done that.</p><p>A noise from behind.</p><p>He turned to see the young man he’d spoken to in the gallery, sitting on an empty plinth, with that same unreadable smile firmly fixed on plump lips. His vision bobbed as he walked closer, until he could see Hannibal’s chest rise and fall with each breath, even under layers of expensive, exquisite fabrics. He lifted a hand – a hand that didn’t look like Will’s own – and tipped the young man’s chin up, exposing that elegant throat. Hannibal’s eyes remained fixed on those of the killer before him, even as the thumb on his chin reached up to flick his bottom lip, then travelled down to settle on the bump of his Adam’s apple.</p><p>And squeezed.</p><p>Will woke up having soaked through to his bedclothes, and was slightly embarrassed to find his boxers weren’t just saturated with sweat. Profiling often bled into dreams, but it didn’t usually end like this.</p><p>Will sipped his rapidly cooling coffee. Why was Hannibal Lecter in his dream? The young man did stir something in him, provoking unease and trust alike, and that made his cameo worse. Maybe it was loneliness. He’d certainly carried a torch for Alana long enough. It was bound to burn him eventually.</p><p>‘Mr. Graham?’</p><p>Startled, Will looked over to see Hannibal coming up beside him. No suit, this time, just a light cashmere sweater over an Oxford shirt bursting with bold florals, tucked into pressed, slim slacks. A leather satchel hung off his shoulder. Rolled-up sleeves revealed toned forearms, hinting at more muscle than his lithe form would suggest.</p><p>‘Hannibal,’ said Will. ‘Hey! Good morning.’</p><p>‘Good morning.’ Hannibal held out a hand, and it took Will a second to realize he had to stand up and shake it. ‘A pleasant surprise.’</p><p>‘Yeah, yes.’</p><p>A pause.</p><p>‘May I sit down?’ asked Hannibal.</p><p>‘Sure, yeah.’</p><p>As they settled in their seats, Hannibal pointed at the untouched croissant on Will’s plate. ‘You haven’t eaten your <em>cornetto</em>.’</p><p>‘Yeah, er, I didn’t order that.’ Will crossed his arms on the table and leaned on them. ‘Comes with the coffee.’</p><p>‘You should try it. This hotel gets its pastries from the best shop in the city.’</p><p>Will raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I can’t say no to that.’</p><p>‘Add some jam.’ As Will tore the pastry in half to do just that, Hannibal indicated the building beside them. ‘Are you staying here?’</p><p>‘Yeah. Booked in by my friendly Italian colleagues.’</p><p>‘It seems we’re neighbors, then,’ said Hannibal, and Will could have sworn he felt the side of Hannibal’s Italian leather shoe gently graze his shin. ‘I live a few streets away. Close enough to walk to the Gallery.’</p><p>‘Is that where you were going?’</p><p>‘Just for pleasure. It’s my day off.’ He patted the satchel he now held in his lap. ‘I’m taking the opportunity to do some sketching.’</p><p>‘Oh, you draw?’</p><p>Hannibal nodded. ‘Would you like to see?’</p><p>Before Will could reply, he’d already opened his bag and extended his sketchbook. On the coarse, off-white pages, Will found hundreds of perfect replicas of paintings and sculptures he’d glimpsed in the Uffizi, and many more he’d never seen at all. Most weren’t full copies, but minute details from larger works, rendered in layered graphite. The turn of a wrist, from five or six angles. The jut of a hipbone. Flesh deformed under fingers.</p><p>The few fully-rendered pieces were breath-taking.</p><p>‘This is incredible,’ Will murmured.</p><p>‘Thank you,’ he heard Hannibal say. There was a distinct note of satisfaction in his voice. ‘I was lucky to be brought up in a family of art lovers. Later, my teachers encouraged me. I couldn’t disappoint them.’</p><p>‘And – don’t take this the wrong way – but you’re so young.’ Will chuckled. ‘I know it’s kind of awful to hear that. It’s not meant to be condescending. It’s – amazement. This is years of practice, laser-focused. I guess <em>that’s</em> talent. Not innate… genius, but fortitude and affinity.’</p><p>There was a short pause before Hannibal repeated his ‘Thank you,’ in a softer tone. Will wanted to look at him, take advantage of this – possible – moment of vulnerability to pierce the veil and see what lay behind, but he didn’t. Because just as he finished turning the page, he saw himself.</p><p>Little doodles of regular folk littered the pages, some visitor admiring a painting, maybe a stranger or two glimpsed in cafés and train cars. The portrait of Will took up about a quarter of the page, surrounded by a crosshatched cloud. It wasn’t perfect, clearly not done with the model present, with a few discrepancies in the exact shape of the nose and ears, but the grim line of his mouth, the melancholy eyes, the shaggy-dog quality of his curls – those were photorealistic. The rest of the two-page spread was dedicated to objects from the <em>Tribuna</em>, with special attention to the Venus and her famous anachronistic arms.</p><p>Hannibal ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t slicked back with product, as it had been yesterday. Strands fell back on a sweep across his forehead, boyish. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Graham. You made an impression. One doesn’t meet an American agent every day.’</p><p>‘I, er, I won’t mind, but you have to start calling me Will. Mr. Graham’s what my students call me.’</p><p>‘You teach?’</p><p>Will nodded. ‘I lecture on criminal psychology. It’s a living.’</p><p>Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, corners gently creased. ‘Perhaps you can teach me a few things.’</p><p>Will handed Hannibal the sketchbook, and spooned some jam onto his <em>cornetto</em>. Everything about this screamed flirting, but that couldn’t be right. Will was rapidly approaching middle age, had all the social graces of a Woody Allen character, and frequently forgot to eat or change clothes for days if he was too wrapped up in a case. Hannibal wasn’t… that. Any of it.</p><p>Maybe he was just being European.</p><p>Will bit into his pastry, and sighed happily at the buttery, fruity flavor that spread on his tongue.</p><p>‘You know, I don’t really have a sweet tooth, but you’re right. These are great.’</p><p>‘You have good taste,’ said Hannibal. ‘And as you do, perhaps you’ll have considered my offer a little more. I said you’d know where to find me, but I found you.’</p><p>‘Must be fate,’ joked Will.</p><p>‘It must.’</p><p>As he chewed, Will thought about it seriously for the first time. Yesterday’s interviews could be written off completely, and they were just with employers and colleagues. He dreaded the thought of getting on the families’ bad sides. The idea of making them suffer, when they were already in so much pain. Hannibal could speak Italian. He was confident, and he’d lived here a while.</p><p>Recruiting a civilian like this wasn’t exactly following protocol, but then again, very little about Will was.</p><p>‘Alright,’ Will said, tentatively. ‘It’s, er, it’s probably a one-time thing, and only if you’re not busy <em>today</em>, but I’m talking to some people I really don’t want to upset. I’d appreciate the help.’</p><p>‘I’m glad for the opportunity.’</p><p>Hannibal’s hand crept to Will’s plate, where he dipped his forefinger in a dot of jam that had dripped off the croissant, and brought it between those mesmerizing lips. Will swallowed his last mouthful, and shifted his eyes to his coffee.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>They could hear children playing in the street outside, through the half-open kitchen door. Vittore Siena’s parents were on one side of the table, Will and Hannibal on the other. <em>Signora</em> Siena was a sturdy homemaker, in a top with short frill hem sleeves and a glittery print of Tweety Bird. <em>Signore </em>Siena wore a plaid shirt much like Will’s own, pack of cigarettes jutting out of his front pocket. When they sat down, she’d placed a plate of thick-cut home-made <em>schiacciata</em> (not <em>focaccia</em>, Hannibal later corrected Will) on the flowery plastic tablecloth, and, after a moment’s hesitation, a box of tissues. Both remained untouched.</p><p>The mother spoke to Hannibal, fiddling with her fingers. He listened, face neutral, asking a few short questions, and relating her words to Will. Vittore was a quiet boy, who’d only started going out at night after finishing high school three years ago – eventually finding work at a bar downtown, where he’d been assiduously saving every paycheck for college, once he decided what he wanted to do.</p><p>‘They say they worried about him, at first, but that he’d always been street-smart.’ Hannibal shot Will a meaningful glance. ‘He was very <em>sensitive</em>. He had to learn fast.’</p><p>Ah.</p><p>‘He worked around <em>Santa Croce</em>, right?’</p><p>‘Yes. <em>Via Guelfa</em>. He liked to spend his evenings off in the bars around the library.’</p><p>Violetta Assanti and Gabiella Capitani frequented the same haunts, Will knew, but they were young, and it was downtown. That’s where everyone hung out. It didn’t really narrow down a hunting ground.</p><p>Vittore’s father spoke now, at length. Hannibal leaned in close to Will and started whispering the translation.</p><p>‘I never understood Vito. He didn’t tell me anything, he didn’t like football – and when he told us he’s – <em>like that</em>, I wasn’t surprised but I didn’t want to…’</p><p>Hannibal paused. The man had tears in his eyes, and he was clearly trying to find a way to express what he wanted to say, unused to open displays of emotion. His wife leaned on him, entwining her fingers with his, and she was crying, too. Will wanted to keep his attention on the couple, and his eyes did stay on them, but he couldn’t help noticing the clean, fresh scent of Hannibal’s clothes, the hint of aftershave.</p><p>‘I thought he might be beaten,’ Hannibal continued, as the father spoke. ‘By kids, stupid kids. Kids like I used to be. But I didn’t think this could happen. To us. To anyone, anymore.’</p><p>Though there was clearly more to say, <em>Signore </em>Siena abruptly stood up and slinked out to the street, muttering something even Will understood, about having a smoke. His wife kept her gaze down, eyelashes thick with black mascara.</p><p>‘Your son didn’t bring this on himself,’ said Will. ‘He did nothing wrong.’</p><p>Hannibal spoke to her. His voice suited the elegant notes of Italian. It sounded musical. He nodded at her reply, and turned back to Will.</p><p>‘Would you like to see his room?’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The bread tasted of garlic and olive oil. The grass felt soft and springy. The sound of the water flowing through the fountain was almost hypnotic.</p><p>If it weren’t for the murder investigation hanging over them, it would be idyllic.</p><p>Will and Hannibal sat in the heart of the Boboli Gardens, large expanses of carefully curated green attached to one of the Medici dynasty’s many palaces. Hannibal had suggested a brief moment of respite after leaving the Siena household, and with Will’s head buzzing with ideas and information, he’d been hard pressed to refuse.</p><p>Vittore Siena’s room didn’t tell him anything about how or why he died, but it filled in the blanks of his personality. Fairy lights were strung up around the ceiling to add a dreamy quality to an otherwise tiny, shabby space. A closet full of androgynous clothes sandwiched between jeans and baggy t-shirts at one end, increasingly short skirts at the other. An old skateboard propped up in a corner, under a Rage Against the Machine poster featuring a portrait of Angela Davis. Over a narrow, neatly made single bed, a collage of pictures of drag queens, male models, and a mixture of skylines from New York, Los Angeles, and Seattle. Under the bed, books on coding.</p><p>Standing in middle of the room, imbibing the remnants of Vittore’s persona, Will was acutely aware of Hannibal watching him from the door. Dark eyes boring into his back. Vittore had the same silhouette. Hung out right around the corner from the Uffizi Gallery, fluttering between gay bars. Did it mean Hannibal was in danger, too?</p><p>Sharing the slices of <em>schiacciata</em> <em>Signora </em>Siena had insisted they take and gazing out at the Brunelleschi cupola, Will was trying to percolate all the information into concrete leads.</p><p>‘Thanks for coming with me,’ he said, looking at Hannibal beside him. Where Will had plonked down on the ground, Hannibal had taken the charming step of laying down a handkerchief to avoid grass stains on his slacks. Not a fan of germs, he explained. Of dirt.</p><p>‘Thank you for allowing me to come.’</p><p>‘I don’t mean just because of the language issues. They liked how you presented yourself.’</p><p>‘I reminded them of their son.’</p><p>Will nodded. ‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘Do I remind you of him, too?’</p><p>The question took him aback. Hannibal’s tone was neutral, his air non-judgmental.</p><p>‘In some ways,’ said Will, cautious. ‘You’re about the same age. You have similar builds. I don’t know if you frequent the same spaces.’</p><p>‘We may.’</p><p>Ah-hah.</p><p>‘Then I hope you’re being careful. The killer doesn’t distinguish between sexes, it seems. He like them young, slim, and –‘</p><p>‘Beautiful?’</p><p>Will laughed. ‘I wasn’t going to put it <em>that </em>way. But <em>Santa Croce</em> seems dangerous, at least for now.’</p><p>‘I’m always cautious.’</p><p>‘Even though you wanted to help with a murder investigation?’</p><p>‘You accepted. I don’t believe you’d put me at risk.’</p><p>‘Maybe I’m selfish.’</p><p>‘Maybe.’</p><p>Hannibal reached into the plastic bag between them and pulled out a slice of bread. The oil that came off it made his fingers shine, and Will once again noted the tiny scars spread over his palms and fingers, contrasted with the impeccable condition of his nails.</p><p>‘Could I ask what you’ve learned?’ asked Hannibal, before taking a bite.</p><p>Will leaned forward, resting crossed arms on his knees and watching the cityscape. ‘We’re dealing with a complex murderer. He likes to show off, obviously, the tableaus tell us that – but he thinks about how the <em>police</em> will examine the crimes, too. Not just the public. He doesn’t keep to one sex, like most serial killers. He seems to have a preferred age range and body type, but I think that’s down to <em>his</em> abilities more than a deliberate choice. He’s probably slight, too. He doesn’t care about social class. But he wants the results of his slaughter to be beautiful. More than the sum of their parts. And he’s going for misdirection.’</p><p>‘Misdirection?’</p><p>A pause. ‘What do you think I mean?’</p><p>After a moment’s silence, Will heard Hannibal speak. ‘I believe his actions indicate a hatred for the feminine.’</p><p>Will smiled, a touch wryly. ‘That’s right. So far, he’s targeted three women, and one feminine man. He mutilates them. Even though he makes their bodies into something amazing, he uses them as tools. He revels in their pain. But I’ve seen the world through his eyes. Only for a few minutes, only second-hand, but I thought like he does. He doesn’t hate femininity, but he wants us to think he does.’</p><p>At Hannibal’s silence, Will looked back to gauge his reaction, only to meet his gaze directly – and there was something there, this time. Real interest, admiration.</p><p>It felt nice, being seen by someone so extraordinary.</p><p>‘Will you need help tomorrow?’ asked Hannibal.</p><p>Interviews with the other parents were scheduled for the ensuing days. It’d be a real boon to have Hannibal on side. But…</p><p>‘What about the Gallery?’</p><p>‘I have been diligent in my attendance. Even if Zangari protests, I’m well within my rights to take a few days off. If you would find it useful, Will.’</p><p>Will only needed a few seconds to think. He nodded.</p><p>‘I would.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘L-e-c-t-e-r.’</p><p>The hostess tapped at her computer with a slight frown, and shook her head.</p><p>‘I’m sorry, sir. Are you sure you booked today?’</p><p>Will nodded, a little knot of embarrassment forming in his stomach. He definitely had the restaurant right. After a few more days meeting people connected to the case, Hannibal suggested he take just one evening off, a few hours on Saturday night where he wouldn’t think about <em>Il Mostro</em> at all. He even knew the perfect place, <em>Il Tartuffo</em>. Within walking distance of the hotel, with the best boar ragout pasta he’d tried. It was a local specialty. A must.</p><p>A fancy dinner wasn’t exactly Will’s idea of a good time, but he could hardly rebuke such a kind offer, not after Hannibal had spent the week schlepping around town and obstinately refusing payment. When he checked the restaurant’s prices, later, in his hotel room, he practically felt his wallet kick in his pocket. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t afford, but he’d spent more years living paycheck to paycheck than not, and old habits die hard.</p><p>Standing in the entrance of this painfully classy establishment, with no reservation and no dining partner, he felt his humble origins radiate out of his body like warning signs. It wasn’t as it used to be, when he was younger, when any awkward situation made him want to dissolve and drain out of the room. It was an all-body unpleasantness, something that would cling to him until he could shake it off. But it hearkened back to that teenage anguish enough to be bitter.</p><p>‘Will?’</p><p>Hannibal loped to the hostess’s desk from the front door, an apologetic smile on his face. The dusky lighting in the restaurant accentuated the smoothness of his skin, elastic and glowing with health, pale despite the slight tan incurred by Italian living.</p><p>Will smiled back, with a curt nod.</p><p>‘Hey. You, er, you booked us in, right?’</p><p>‘I did.’ He turned to the hostess. ‘Table for two under “Graham.”’</p><p>Will could’ve slapped himself.</p><p>The young lady seemed relieved at what came up on her screen, and eagerly guided them over to a corner table in the gorgeous main room of the restaurant – a cavernous building converted from an old-school high-end bank to one of the hottest new eateries. They’d preserved the Tuscan columns lining the sides of the room, the abstract pattern on the floor tiles.</p><p>Just a few feet from their table, in the middle of the room, stood an imposing statue of a man wrestling a centaur. He sat astride the creature’s back, bending his human half back at an unnatural angle, body bulging with flexed muscles. While the centaur scratched at his captor, the man’s face showed only grim determination, right hand raised high to strike the killing blow with a heavy rock.</p><p>‘That’s a copy of Giambologna’s <em>Hercules and Nessus</em>,’ Hannibal remarked, when he saw Will inspecting the piece. ‘The story goes that Nessus kidnapped Hercules’ wife. He’s on the brink of getting his revenge, not knowing the centaur’s blood is the poison that will be his undoing. Very classically Greek.’</p><p>‘Based on his face, I’d say he does know. But he prefers mutually assured destruction to indignity. I don’t know how classically Greek that is.’</p><p>‘In the end, it may have been for the best. Hercules goes to Olympus to be among the gods, and Nessus becomes the guardian of the Circle of Violence in the underworld. All’s well that ends well.’</p><p>‘As above, so below, huh?’</p><p>Hannibal smiled. ‘You didn’t have to dress up. <em>Il Tartuffo</em> is far too self-consciously hip to impose a strict dress code.’</p><p>‘This is just what I wear to the Academy graduations,’ Will said, picking at the tired dark blue material of his suit jacket. ‘I thought I might have to meet the head of the local police or something, but they’ve steered pretty clear.’</p><p>‘You look nice.’</p><p>Will laughed. ‘I shaved.’</p><p>He’d actually spent a fair amount of time choosing something decent, with a little texting input from Bev, before settling on the jacket over a red check shirt and jeans. He couldn’t do anything about his beat-up boots, which were the only pair of shoes he’d brought.</p><p>He cleaned up okay, but he was bound to look shabby next to Hannibal, who was predictably exquisite in grey houndstooth and a dark shirt. A gold ring glimmered on his left little finger. The bezel bore an embossed crest, between “H” and “L” drawn in intricate black script.</p><p>‘It’s our coat of arms,’ said Hannibal, angling his hand to better show Will. ‘”Hannibal” has a long history in the Lecter family. My father knew I’d bear that name before he even met my mother. Take a closer look.’</p><p>A little hesitant, Will lifted Hannibal’s fingers with his own. He didn’t know much about signet rings, but he could tell the craftsmanship on the piece was excellent, not cheapened in the least by the tiny bumps and scratches on the body of the ring, which only gave it more status, evidence of old age and a storied past.</p><p>When he felt Hannibal’s thumb lightly stroke the back of his fingers, Will hastily let go. As if on cue, a waiter appeared with the menus and a list of tonight’s suggestions. Will’s heart had skipped a beat when he’d felt the caress, warmth pooling low in his abdomen.</p><p>‘I’ve, er, I’ve been meaning to ask,’ Will began, after the waiter departed. ‘Your Italian’s perfect – as far as <em>I </em>know – but your accent’s definitely from somewhere else.’</p><p>‘I was born in Lithuania.’</p><p>‘Ah. This is, er, where I’m supposed to prove I’m not like all those other Americans by sharing some fascinating facts about Lithuania.’</p><p>‘You know that it exists. That’s a cut above the rest.’ Hannibal’s eyes returned to his menu. ‘My mother was Italian. She passed away when I was young, but she was able to teach me enough to spark a lifelong interest.’</p><p>Will nodded. He knew better than to pry, though he was deeply curious about Hannibal’s past. Everything about him, in all honesty. He wondered if the feeling was mutual.</p><p>‘I don’t really remember my mother,’ he said, casually. ‘I like to think that some of what I am is down to her. Getting into nature versus nurture is a dangerous path, I suppose.’</p><p>‘Were you raised by your father?’</p><p>‘You’d know if you met him,’ Will chuckled. ‘It’s like seeing double. Which is, er, something he’s well acquainted with. Speaking of which, shall we get some wine?’</p><p>‘With pleasure. Might I suggest a Chianti? It’s native to this region.’</p><p>‘I trust your judgment. I know even less about European wines than I do American ones. And, er, you said I should try the boar pasta?’</p><p>‘<em>Papardelle al Ragù di Cinta Senese</em>.’ The words slid off Hannibal’s tongue as natural as you like. ‘Wild-caught boar ragout. The taste is strong. You feel it in the back of your nose.’</p><p>As if to demonstrate, he took a deep breath. Will pictured the ragged snorts of the boar at his feet, blood glugging out the bullet wound he’d put there seconds earlier. The metallic tang emanating from the wound, mixing with the earthy musk of the animal dying by his hand.</p><p>‘Sounds good,’ Will said. He closed the menu, keeping his eyes on the dark brown leather cover.</p><p>‘I would like you to order for us.’</p><p>Will blinked at him. Hannibal smiled sweetly.</p><p>‘If you could.’</p><p>Will broke into an awkward laugh. ‘If we have to wait until I can pronounce that name, you’ll finish your internship before we get our dinner.’</p><p>‘Just ask for the Sienese pasta.’</p><p>‘Why?’</p><p>Hannibal laced his fingers together, elbows on the table, smile unwavering. ‘It feels nice to be taken care of. And it feels nice to take care of others. Don’t you think?’</p><p>Will nodded, curtly, and flagged down a passing waiter. Soon, he was filling Hannibal’s wine glass up to a respectable level before moving on to his own, trying quite hard not to think about the blood gushing out of the boar, the blood coursing through his veins, making him hot and simple-minded.</p><p>‘So you never stayed in the same place very long?’ Hannibal asked. He swirled the wine to release the fruity scents and undertones, inhaled, and took his first sip. Adequate.</p><p>‘No. A couple of months, maybe a year or two, then back to trekking through Louisiana backwoods for the next friendly town. I didn’t question it. Back then, it was just how we lived. Now, I think the old man probably couldn’t keep his nose clean for too long. I was glad to move to New Orleans when I got the chance.’</p><p>‘It must have been lonely.’</p><p>‘I liked being on my own,’ Will lied. ‘Left me plenty of time to read. Focus on what lay ahead. I have friends, now. People who care. Not many, but I don’t think I could handle a crowd. And you?’</p><p>‘I have acquaintances. Places I frequent with people my age. Though I have always preferred the company of older men.’</p><p>Will could feel a slight flush about his cheeks, and took a large sip of wine so he could have something to blame it on. Hannibal continued, and his eyes were fixed quite firmly on Will.</p><p>‘At school – a boarding school, in Paris – there wasn’t much to do until one could apply for day passes, at sixteen. I spent the bulk of my youth in the gardens and in my teachers’ private quarters, reading. Drawing. Best to be alone instead of wasting time with people who wouldn’t understand.’</p><p>‘Understand?’</p><p>‘Anything. Not only about me. About the world, and the things that matter.’</p><p>Hannibal smiled and raised his glass.</p><p>‘Like good food, and good company.’</p><p>They toasted. The wine was dry, but cool, and Will could taste cherries when he gulped it down. With his head getting pleasantly fuzzy, he felt like he could start to actually relax for the first time since he got to Europe.</p><p>‘So, I’m trying to build a timeline here,’ he said. ‘You’re Lithuanian – well, half Italian, but born there –you went to school in Paris, and now you’re in Florence? It’s very, er, cosmopolitan.’</p><p>‘I’m sure you’ve intuited I’m from a comfortable background. It comes with the territory.’</p><p>‘Did your family go to France with you?’</p><p>Hannibal’s full lips parted, then closed. For the first time, he seemed to be caught off-guard, gaze avoidant. The flicker lasted only a second, before his usual mask was back in place, but Will noticed.</p><p>‘There were complications,’ Hannibal said. ‘I left the Baltics for my Uncle’s home in France. That’s where I refined my palate.’</p><p>‘I’m sorry.’ Will didn’t want to let the conversation lapse into awkwardness, and quickly added: ‘I grew up in the bayou. I was scraping by in New Orleans when you were a child. And I’m guessing I was still getting to grips with the Bureau when you were borrowing books from your teachers. I struggle to think how we could be more different. But there’s –‘</p><p>‘An understanding.’</p><p>A pause.</p><p>‘Yes.’ He took a quick drink of wine. ‘Could, er, could I know how many languages you speak? I meant to ask before, but, you know. Sidetracked.’</p><p>This seemed to legitimately require a moment’s thought, as Hannibal looked up and silently mouthed a few words. Will smiled. A burden most wish they could have.</p><p>‘Lithuanian,’ Hannibal said, raising a finger for each, ‘Italian and English, of course. French. My father taught me some Russian before he passed, though only a little. It was the lingua franca of his time. I’d consider myself a beginner in Japanese thanks to my Uncle’s wife. They taught us Latin and Ancient Greek at school, but only the Latin has really found purchase, and I’d credit that to the Italian.’</p><p>Will raised his eyebrows with a bemused chuckle. ‘Is that all?’</p><p>Hannibal put his hands back down on the table, stroking his signet ring with his right index finger, grinning slyly. ‘And you, Will? Have you ever tried a foreign tongue?’</p><p>The remark would’ve made him laugh, if it weren’t for the unpleasant combo of arousal and guilt tumbling around his head like a heavy load of mixed laundry. One feeling tainted the other. Hannibal was so young, and if he was anything like how Will used to be, so desperately in search of someone who’d make him feel less alone. And he was a man.</p><p>Will hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, looking forward to dinner. The wine was going to his head. Thinking straight wasn’t an option.</p><p>Easier to take Hannibal’s comment at face value.</p><p>‘I, er, I think I mentioned Spanish. I’m conversational. Feels like common decency, if you’re in US law enforcement.’ He cleared his throat. His next words were clumsy, rusty and heavy with the peculiarities of half-remembered creole: ‘<em>Et j’comprends un brin français cause du cadien</em>.’</p><p>
  <em>And a smidgen of French, thanks to Cajun.</em>
</p><p>A delighted laugh escaped Hannibal’s throat, unexpected and underused. Will’s smile returned, small.</p><p>‘I’m not <em>that </em>bad.’</p><p>‘That’s wonderful,’ Hannibal said, and there was true warmth in his voice. ‘I won’t torture you by asking for more right now, but I hope you’ll let me hear you speak French again. I would love to see how it differs from the European standard.’</p><p>‘Don’t get your hopes up. I used a good thirty per cent of my vocabulary on that sentence alone.’</p><p>‘That still leaves seventy per cent to explore.’</p><p>The waiter came to their table with an elegant deep dish in each hand, with little nests of <em>papardelle</em> holding a ladle-full of dark meat stew and a sprinkling of parmesan. As Will twirled a thick ribbon of pasta around his fork, he sensed Hannibal watching him intently. He still had the afterimage of the Chianti on his tongue when he brought the first bite to his mouth. The rich boar stew coated his taste buds, the primal, wild flavor mingling with the luxurious wine to almost overwhelm the senses. He felt the twigs snap under his feet, the sun filtering through the copse of the trees above, heard the trigger of the shotgun being pulled –</p><p>But he wasn’t the hunter. He was the boar, and he felt the bullet sear a tunnel through his flesh, pierce his heart through. Like popping a water balloon, floods of ruby red blood cascading out of his side, a sudden coldness in his limbs.</p><p>Hannibal was watching him.</p><p>‘Good?’ he asked.</p><p>‘Delicious.’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Will placed his hand in the boar’s mouth. His fingers became wet as he pressed the coin onto the animal’s tongue. He watched it slide down the running water, fall through the air, and neatly slot through the grate at the foot of the fountain.</p><p>‘Now I can rub the, er…’</p><p>‘The snout, yes.’</p><p>The sculpted animal’s nose shone brightly with its original copper coloring, the rest of the body a dark brown from centuries of patina. Will pet it like he might one of his larger dogs, with affection and enthusiasm, and he felt longing for his cloister in Virginia.</p><p>‘Now you’re sure to return to Florence,’ Hannibal said.</p><p>Will smiled. The evening had turned out to be a real reprieve from the morbid stress of his visit, full of easy conversation, delicious food, and the pleasant buzz afforded by two shared bottles of wine, cushioned by generous serving sizes and long periods of conversation. Hannibal walked him back to the square where his hotel was, and insisted on a detour by the <em>Porcellino </em>fountain for the standard ritual.</p><p>‘Thanks for, er, suggesting this,’ said Will. ‘It hasn’t been the <em>best</em> European getaway. You’ve really helped with the investigation, and now with this. Thank you.’</p><p>He kept his gaze off the young man, a little embarrassed at the heartfelt words, so he almost jumped when he felt movement against his hand, fingers entwining with his own. When he looked at Hannibal, at a loss for anything to say, he was met with shining eyes, a mischievous smile.</p><p>‘Thank <em>you</em> for making this past week so interesting,’ Hannibal said. He spoke quietly, his body close to Will’s. There was a faint scent of aftershave. ‘It’s been far more fun than the months leading up to it.’</p><p>Hannibal moved to stand before him, and Will realized he was ever so slightly taller, almost imperceptibly so. There was no way to avoid Hannibal’s captivating face up close, to note the perfection in the smooth lines of his cheekbones, his nose, and those kissable lips.</p><p>Will brusquely let go of Hannibal’s hand and turned away, taking a few steps towards his hotel.</p><p>‘You must be, er, feeling tired. And you’ve only got the weekend before you’re back at the Uffizi.’ He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, staring at his shoes. The pleasant swimming sensation in his mind was starting to make him feel a little sick. ‘I should probably try to sleep, too.’</p><p>He waited. In his tipsy state, it could have been seconds or minutes, but he wanted Hannibal to say something. To touch him again. He didn’t know what he’d do.</p><p>‘You’re right,’ Will finally heard. The sound of footfalls getting closer, coming up behind him... but no more. No contact. ‘I’ll take my leave. It’s quite a long way back to my apartment.’</p><p>On impulse, before Hannibal could go, Will looked at him, so quickly it made his world spin.</p><p>‘Hannibal.’</p><p>Illuminated only by the streetlights and the faint glow of the hotels’ electric signs, Hannibal was ethereal. His expression was perfectly neutral, at first glance, but Will knew better than to take him at face value. The stiffness of his stance, the way he didn’t even deign to plaster on his mysterious smile – he was frustrated. He <em>wanted</em>. He wanted <em>Will</em>.</p><p>‘I’m, er. I’m sorry. I know I’m acting – strangely. Well, I don’t think you could call it <em>acting</em>, unless I’m just the most method man who ever lived, but I – your help’s really meant a lot. Your presence.’</p><p>‘Are you lonely, Will?’</p><p>A pause. Hannibal continued:</p><p>‘You have my phone number. Be sure to use it.’</p><p>A ghost of a smile, and he set off. Will watched him leave, listened to his soles on the cobblestones, until he rounded a corner and disappeared into one of those labyrinthine European side streets. With a sigh, Will entered the reception of his hotel.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li><em>howd it go!</em></li>
</ul><p>Bev’s message, with its exclamation mark, seemed almost mocking. Sitting on the plush duvet of his hotel bed, in his boxer briefs, hair damp and dripping from a shower he’d hoped would clear his head, Will held his thumb over the phone’s onscreen keyboard.</p><p>How <em>did </em>it go?</p><p>It wasn’t very flattering to see how excited people seemed to be about his simply going out to dinner with someone. Even Alana, usually silent save for occasional photo updates of the dogs trampling around her house, had texted him:</p>
<ul>
<li><em>Beverly told me you made a friend.<br/>
</em></li>
<li><em>Did you have fun?</em></li>
</ul><p>A perfectly reasonable thing to ask, but he sensed relief in those eleven words. Pity. Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with his awkward attempts at flirtation if he found someone else to imprint upon.</p><p>That wasn’t fair. She’d always been kind.</p><p>Will took in a deep breath, and let out a long exhale that ended in a groan. He picked up his glass of tap water and sipped it, walking over to the window that looked out onto the <em>piazza</em>. He’d been guzzling water since returning to his room, painfully aware of the growing limitations of his age and keen to avoid even the hint of a hangover.</p><p>He doubted Hannibal would have the same concern.</p><p>Wondering what to say to the women at the other end of his text conversations, Will let his eyes wander from the <em>Porcellino </em>fountain below, to the shuttered cafés and terraces, over to the street his young friend had scarpered into just an hour before –</p><p>He went the wrong way.</p><p>Will set his glass down. Again, he looked toward the street Hannibal had turned into, then at the empty terrace they’d often meet at for breakfast. When they’d first run into each other, the morning Hannibal was headed to the Uffizi to draw, he mentioned he always crossed the <em>Piazza del Mercato Nuovo</em> to go to work. He lived a few streets over.</p><p><em>It’s quite a long way back to my apartment</em>.</p><p>It didn’t <em>mean</em> anything. The night was still young for someone a lick over twenty. Hannibal could have decided to meet some friends. He left in the direction of the Gallery, after all. Towards the clubs, the bars.</p><p>He’d wanted more. He might need to get it from someone else.</p><p>Images of Hannibal’s slim figure flashed through Will’s mind, colorful tableaus interspersed with rhythmic blackouts. Hannibal, the centre of attention on a densely packed dance floor. Hannibal, whispering in another man’s ear, letting strange hands caress his chest, travel down his back to grip his ass. Hannibal’s red-roseleaf lips closing around thick fingers and knuckles.</p><p>That mouth. Will caught himself staring during dinner, while Hannibal delicately worked his way through the meal. The way his lips stretched and moved while he chewed. The tip of a pointy tongue swiping over his plump lower lip to catch a stray drop of wine.</p><p>Will turned his back to the window, leaning against the glass, and palmed his growing erection over the soft material of his underwear. His cock throbbed at the touch, pleading for more. Will groaned, indulging in a slow massage along his length, arm hair prickling up at the waves of pleasure.</p><p>He hadn’t masturbated since he set foot in Florence.</p><p>He knew who he’d think about if he did.</p><p>Looking at his glaringly empty bed, Will considered another option. Maybe Hannibal truly <em>had </em>returned home, which meant he’d lied about where he lived the first time they met.</p><p>Had he been looking for Will, that morning?</p><p>Heart pounding, breathing faster, Will tugged his shorts down enough to free his cock and take himself in hand. Each stroke made his mind foggier, narrowed his focus on the merciful release of orgasm.</p><p>What if Hannibal had wanted him from the start? What if Hannibal, with all his absurd talents and social ease despite only a few years of adulthood, had laid eyes on Will, exhausted from a redeye flight and tripping through a conversation, and seen something beautiful?</p><p>People didn’t go out of their way to <em>know </em>him.</p><p>Certainly not people like <em>that</em>.</p><p>His breath hitched. He leaned harder against the glass, his back cold in contrast with the fire in his front. He was getting close, rising up on tiptoes as his muscles tensed. Hannibal’s eyes, crinkling with rare, genuine mirth. Hannibal’s accented voice, rumbling from within his chest, reassuring. Hannibal’s hands, mysteriously scuffed, rough palms and fingers cupping Will’s face, touching his bare chest, replacing Will’s own grip on his cock to finally, <em>finally </em>let him –</p><p>Come.</p><p>Will gasped. Pent-up, his first load reached the bed sheets, the next spurts drooling white on the hardwood floor. It was all he could do to stagger away from the window and collapse onto the bed, prone. He had his hands out before him, hiding his face against his bicep.</p><p>The comedown was accompanied by a creeping sense of sleaze. Hannibal was young enough to be his son, if he’d followed the path to teenage parenthood like so many of his childhood acquaintances. He couldn’t encourage this crush. And he had enough problems without old questions about his sexuality making a comeback, not now.</p><p>The dizziness was morphing into sleep, like curtains descending on a stage.</p><p>He’d come. And he’d come <em>hard.</em></p><p>Things could only become more complicated.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something oppressive about Botticelli’s <em>Primavera</em>. Taller than most men and about six times as wide, it depicted Greco-Roman deities associated with spring, with rebirth and fertility and love. The figures were almost totally detached from one another, involved in their own scenes, laid against a dim background from which hundreds of colorful plants bloomed. In the middle, Venus stood in a classically Christian pose, with an expression as muted as the shades of the canvas, dulled by time. In the far right, a woman in a diaphanous gown gasped as a blue-tinged god grasped her sides, lifting her off the ground. A string of flowers poured out of her mouth.</p><p>It was this couple that Hannibal was indicating.</p><p>‘He is Zephyr, the deity of the western wind. She is Chloris, a wood nymph.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and continued, in the kind of didactic tone Will knew well from his own classes. ‘Her beauty enraptured him. When he came to make her his bride, she cried out, and the flowers that sprang from her mouth brought forth color into the world.</p><p>Will focused on Zephyr’s face. There was no love there, as his thin purple arms descended on a frightened Chloris. Only hatred.</p><p>‘In the end, she became Flora, the goddess of spring,’ Hannibal concluded.</p><p>He nodded toward the woman directly next to Chloris, in a long-sleeved dress with a crown, collar, and belt made of flowers, with more held up in a fold of her skirt. She was rosy-cheeked, with a serene expression and a smile, gazing at the viewer. A far cry from the sallow, terrified nymph she used to be.</p><p>‘Did Zephyr make her a god?’ Will asked.</p><p>‘Yes, so she could rule beside him. Their son, Karpos, was a youth renowned for his beauty.’ Hannibal turned towards Will. ‘He drowned swimming with his lover, Kalamos, who let himself perish in the water out of grief. He became the reeds. When the wind blows through them, they rustle as a sigh of lamentation.’</p><p>That sound echoed in Will’s ears. Years of fishing made him well-acquainted with the sights and sounds of rivers, and he’d often felt a sense of melancholy permeating the peace of his favorite spots when the vegetation whispered in the wind.</p><p>He nodded and broke eye contact. There was a squirm in his lower jaw. Discomfort. It would have been hard enough to look at Hannibal after last night’s fantasies.</p><p>What happened earlier that day only made things worse.</p><p>Pazzi rang him in the morning with news of two bodies. Less than an hour later, Will stood among the empty stalls and tables of the <em>Mercato Centrale</em>, a cathedral-like indoor market with tall windows through which the cool morning light streamed in.</p><p>On the floor was a bed of flowers, dozens of types and colors arranged in beautiful gradients, fanning out from a central point to highlight the figures laying on it, in a pose he’d later learn matched Chloris and Zephyr exactly. The first, on the left, was a young woman wrapped in gossamer fabric, posed as if escaping. Small flowers bulged out of her mouth, dripping down her cheek onto the arrangement below.</p><p>The second, a male, seemed to hover over her, reaching out to grab her about the waist. Will specialized in corpse decay, but anyone with a cursory knowledge of the topic would know he’d been dead for far longer than she. Almost a week. His skin was bloated, with a sickly green tinge. Darker patches surrounded his mouth and nose, tidemarks of the bloody purging froth that erupted from a cadaver’s orifices during the initial phases of decay, which someone had meticulously cleaned off. The florals mingled with the bittersweet smell of putrefaction to form a cocktail that had a couple of the police officers heaving, but Will managed to steel himself. He was awake, alert, and in the presence of a fresh crime scene. This was why he’d come.</p><p>Pazzi watched him from a distance. His face was mostly obscured by a paper mask imbued with peppermint oil, to ward off the stench, but his eyes seemed as foreboding and skeptical as ever.</p><p>No matter.</p><p>The forensics team finished their field work, and waved to give the all-clear. Pazzi nodded.</p><p>Will closed his eyes. Focused. Then opened them.</p><p>
  <em>Though it’s late at night, he can see. The moon shines just as well as the sun in a space like this.</em>
</p><p><em>Breaking in was almost too easy. A chain, padlocked to the main double doors, and a simple lock any street kid could pick on a service entrance. He certainly isn’t a street kid.</em> <em>He made a point to prove it not just with his kills, but with where he chose to display his work. If it didn’t capture the public’s imagination, make them think “how on Earth did he do it?,” there was no point.</em></p><p>
  <em>That meant a few sacrifices.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was more exciting to kill where he set up his tableau, but he has to be quick. He doesn’t want the blood, the organs, to mess up the framing. So he’d murdered and cleaned the girl before getting there, after allowing her to meet the man who’d be acting opposite her in the scene, of course. The terror, the disgust of being pressed up so close to the rotting body – it was far too good to pass up. Strangling her had been a mercy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Most of the flowers were retrieved from the dumpsters outside the market, a few picked in the wild. Avoid the conspicuousness of buying in bulk the day before the murder. The ones he’d salvaged from the trash were for the mattress on the floor. The ones he’d picked…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Kneeling beside her cadaver, he pulls open the long slit leading into her abdominal cavity, emptied of all its contents, and with his other hand, he starts stuffing the flowers inside, like aromatics in a bird. On his left little finger, a signet ring gleams in the moonlight –</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A crest. H.L.</em>
</p><p>Will flinched out of character, coming to still wrist-deep inside the woman’s torso. He staggered to his feet, blinking hard.</p><p>He couldn’t let the situation with Hannibal interfere with this. It was stupid. It was undermining his accuracy – the killer was far too sophisticated not to wear gloves, and it was absurd to bring a totally unrelated person into –</p><p>‘Everything okay?’ Pazzi yelled from a distance, frowning.</p><p>Will nodded. He passed his hand over his face a couple of times, rubbed his eyes. Deep breaths.</p><p>Focus.</p><p>
  <em>The smell of death. The smell of flowers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aromatics.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Killers keep trophies, that much is common. His victims are his tools, his prey. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His meal?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It doesn’t take long for the abdomen to be full, and he moves on to inserting the final flowers into her mouth, trailing down the side of her face. Adjusting the poses. Everything has to be just so. Just perfect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Perfect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Standing up, he sets about clearing up any evidence he might have overlooked, packs up the duffel bags he used to transport the bodies, replaces the wheeled carts he borrowed from market storage. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once everything is in place, he sighs, satisfied, and heads to the exit – a flash of movement. He whirls round, tensing into a fighting stance, lets out a low chuckle when he sees what it is. Just a reflection on a metallic surface. In the shiny material, Hannibal smiles back.</em>
</p><p>‘<em>No</em>,’ grunted Will, violently shaking his head. He stood where he had in his reenactment, watching his own face in the mirror-like finish of an industrial kitchen mixer, just steps from the door.</p><p>This interference never happened. It was <em>dangerous</em>.</p><p>‘Mr. Graham, are you finished?’ Pazzi called. There was clear annoyance in his tone, and Will couldn’t blame him.</p><p>He nodded. ‘Yeah, Inspector Pazzi. Yeah. I’ve – I’ve seen enough.’</p><p>Pazzi warbled a few orders in rapid Italian at the forensics crew and gestured for Will to follow him out, where they could talk without the pungent stench permeating the air. Around the back of the <em>Mercato</em>, away from the prying viewfinders of journalists, Will explained what he’d gleaned: the prizing of spectacle even above enjoyment of human suffering, the delicate edge to the murder tableaus that indicated intellectual superiority and entitlement rather than the inferiority complex of a self-taught outsider, the likely fate of the female before her demise. The suspicion of what he did with the organs.</p><p>‘You’re saying this is a cannibal?’ asked Pazzi. His face mask was pulled down under his chin, and his cigarette clung to his wet lip as he spoke. There was something uniquely disgusting about the way it flapped around with each word, sticky with saliva.</p><p>‘I think so. Offal goes bad fast. That’s why he needs a steady supply. We’ll know more once he dumps Sabrina Armati’s body. If I’m right, he’ll have kept her – and Violetta Assanti’s arms – for the meat.’ A pause. ‘I think he wants us to know. So he’ll leave her somewhere blatant, where she’ll be found before scavengers might disturb the remains. Obscure the… deliberate cuts he’ll take of her.’</p><p>‘<em>Porco Dio…</em>’ he muttered. ‘They are like pigs to him.’</p><p>‘Tools, prey. Whatever you prefer. His exhibitionism will be his downfall, if anything will. He wants to outrage. To, er, excel in his field.’</p><p>Pazzi looked at him strangely, and Will cleared his throat, uncomfortable.</p><p>‘We will need some days to run tests, especially because there are two victims,’ Pazzi said. ‘I heard you were better with the interviews after we talked. If you continue to be careful, you can speak with the families when we identify the bodies.’</p><p>This was good news, but it made Will’s throat itch, the beginnings of anxious nausea. He’d need an Italian interpreter, if it came to that. In the meantime, the only leads he could follow connected to the artistic side of the killings – there was no way this latest installation wasn’t a reference, too. Either way, calling on Hannibal made perfect sense. Plus, with the murder being all over the news, he’d expect contact.</p><p>He was at work when Will texted him, and invited him over right away. Though Will’s heart thumped as soon as they saw each other, and his speech was even more hesitant than usual, Hannibal acted like nothing was amiss. After a few quick questions about Will’s wellbeing, he intently studied the photograph of the <em>Mercato</em> crime scene, resting the side of his left index finger against his mouth in thought, tapping his thumb against his cheek.</p><p>Will wanted to keep his mind on the case, but it took Hannibal longer to think about the composition than before, and after a few minutes of silent contemplation, he found himself eyeing Hannibal’s elegant fingers, holding the picture, the gentle curve of his thin wrist disappearing into the sleeve of his dress shirt. Under the bright lights of the gallery, Hannibal’s long, dark eyelashes cast spidery shadows on his high cheek bones. His top lip rested on his finger, highlighting the perfect arch of his cupid’s bow, the softness of his bottom lip, the hint of pearly teeth. Beautiful. So different from Pazzi’s sticky, sick maw.</p><p>Those lips formed an O of silent recognition.</p><p>‘I believe I know what this is in reference to.’</p><p>‘Yeah?’</p><p>‘I’ll show you. It’s in the Botticelli Hall.’</p><p>He handed the photograph back to Will and walked <em>quite</em> close, enough for Will to catch his scent, to feel his warmth.</p><p>‘Please, follow me,’ he said, with one of his opaque grins.</p><p>And Will followed, but his throat was in knots. Because under the cologne and shampoo and the natural smell of Hannibal that he was badly trying to ignore, he swore he’d detected the miasma of flowers and rot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun was a thin line between hotel room curtains, travelling down the wood floor, up the door and to the peephole. There was no other light. It was an hour after lunch, and Will had barely left the bed in days.</p><p>The phone buzzed on the bedside table. He didn’t bother checking it. Bev would understand a slow response. Alana would, too. Pazzi would just call. And as for Hannibal…</p><p>He was just some kid. An exceptional young man, but a young man nonetheless. Will didn’t need these – mixed up feelings, this mounting lust. He remembered being that age. Half adult, half child, still driven by a primal sort of impulse to find a <em>tribe</em>. It was still so easy to latch onto anyone kind</p><p>(Alana could talk about that at length, he was sure)</p><p>and Will was almost twice Hannibal’s age. Giving in to temptation would almost be the textbook definition of grooming, wouldn’t it? He was far too old for a European fling. And he was far too old to start investigating a latent interest in men. He’d grown up poor, sensitive, and book smart, with an uncanny sense of empathy. Other kids thought they knew what that meant. They kicked the message into his head more than once.</p><p>He had enough problems.</p><p>Worst of all, the spiraling guilt was making him suspect someone without proper evidence. Throwing his senses and instinct into disarray. Jack Crawford called it his <em>gift</em>. He’d always seen it as something of a poisoned chalice, but the prospect of such easy fallibility was terrifying.</p><p>Unless.</p><p>Recumbent in bed, Will blearily opened his eyes, squinting in even the limited illumination of this dark room. An expert in the arts – not just what they looked like, but their history, their symbolism. A cultured mind. Wiry strength, muscles still developing. An affinity for cleaving into people’s minds.</p><p>Of course, he’d considered it. Even Hannibal’s eagerness to help fit the profile. A way to keep an eye on the investigation, relish in the attention, and imbue the whole case with a delicious irony. But this was <em>Florence</em>. The city was full of culture vultures with slight figures. The <em>country </em>was full of them. What were the odds that Hannibal, of all people, would be <em>Il Mostro</em>?</p><p>What were the odds of a murder the night after a rejection?</p><p>No, that was a point against his guilt, if anything – <em>Il Mostro</em> was far too slick to give in to petty frustration. Surely. And his methods were sophisticated. Expert, almost. Someone Hannibal’s age wouldn’t have had the time to hone –</p><p>The mobile phone rang. The Doors’ <em>Strange Days</em>.</p><p>Hah.</p><p>Pazzi’s team had worked extraordinarily fast, but these were extraordinary circumstances. Will picked up.</p><p>‘Hello?’</p><p>‘Hello, Will,’ Hannibal’s deep voice roiled over the line.</p><p>Will sat up.</p><p>‘Will?’</p><p>‘Er, yeah. Sorry, I thought it was someone else.’</p><p>‘Ah. The investigation?’</p><p>‘Yes. I’ve been, er, busy.’</p><p>(four days had passed. He’d left the room whenever the housekeeper knocked to go grab his one meal from the vending machines downstairs. The rest of his waking hours were spent browsing photographs of his dogs, convincing and unconvincing himself of Hannibal’s involvement in the case, and masturbating)</p><p>‘Of course. I didn’t wish to bother you. However, the Uffizi is hosting a talk this evening, and I have a few hours to fill. I thought you might like to see the sights. If you have the time.’</p><p>Will wanted to see him. He knew it was probably unwise, but he did. And he wanted to get some fresh air. Distract himself. It was harder to spiral inside his mind if he had to focus on something else. Someone else.</p><p>‘Give me twenty minutes.’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Despite being a completely public thoroughfare, <em>Piazza della Signoria</em> could put many museums to shame. Sculptures by Giambologna, Donatello, and a half dozen other masters stood a few feet from one another, depicting all sorts of myths, from Hercules’ Labours to the Rape of the Sabine Women. Will had seen enough of the city to know these sights weren’t <em>unusual</em> in Florence, by any means, but this was an unusually high concentration of stunning art even for the City of Lilies.</p><p>‘Some of these are copies,’ Hannibal commented, perhaps seeing the amazement on his companion’s face. ‘The <em>David</em> in front of the <em>Palazzo</em>, and the Donatello.’</p><p>He nodded at a bronze sculpture of a scene Will recognized from weekends spent hanging around in churches for a free lunch. Judith, with a blade held high, not an ounce of hesitation in her body, tightly grasping Holofernes by the hair, ready to slice through his exposed neck.  </p><p>Not too far away, a naked Perseus pinned the lifeless body of the Medusa to the ground with one foot, brandishing her severed head, still dripping with thick ropes of blood.</p><p>‘Decapitation seems like a recurring theme,’ Will said.</p><p>‘It is symbolic, to a point. Unlikely victors over stronger, strange powers, like Florence herself in a bygone age. Of course, a fair number of executions were carried out here, as well. I shouldn’t be surprised if beheading was among them.’</p><p>With <em>Il Mostro</em> constantly on his mind, Will quickly changed the subject before he could start to feel the long-dried blood of the dead splash beneath his feet:</p><p>‘Were all of these commissioned by the Medici?’</p><p>‘Most. Not all. Enough to be more than impressive. It’s amazing to consider how much one family shaped a city. Florence is essentially tailor-made to Medici preferences.’</p><p>‘Rule of the fittest.’</p><p>‘Indeed. One can be born with power, and one can acquire it. But if one doesn’t take full advantage of it, then there is no point. Asceticism is a repulsive quality.’</p><p>Will smiled. ‘Strong words.’</p><p>‘Strong feelings.’</p><p>Strong feelings, indeed. Will cleared his throat.</p><p>‘Do, er, do you have a favorite sculpture here?’</p><p>Hannibal cast an amused glance in his direction, then slowly looked around the square, evaluating the pieces on show. Will saw his arm move toward him, but did nothing to prevent Hannibal from taking his hand and leading him to the arches that sheltered snapshots of war. Will noted the original of Hercules and Nessus that took pride of place at <em>Il Tartuffo, </em>though Hannibal didn’t even pause to admire it.</p><p>They went directly to a white depiction of two men. One, in a warrior’s helmet and tunic, with a sheathed sword, holding his slimmer companion, dead or dying. The craftsmanship was remarkable, stone flesh bunching and bulging and bending as it would on a living being, the discoloration on the marble lending even more realism, mimicking veins and contusions.</p><p>‘Menelaus carrying the body of Patroclus. Artist unknown.’ Hannibal’s hand was warm. Will hoped he wouldn’t sweat. ‘Do you know about them?’</p><p>‘From the Iliad? I read it back in college, but it’s been a while. Patroclus fought in the Trojan War with Achilles, didn’t he?’</p><p>‘That’s right. He was a prince, given to neighboring king Peleus to be his son Achilles’ squire.’</p><p>‘Given?’</p><p>‘As punishment. He killed another boy over a game. But it brought him to his soulmate. So it was worth it.’</p><p>A lump formed in Will’s throat, a pellet made of scraps of <em>Il Mostro</em>, of the cases he’d seen working for the FBI, of the violence and dirt of his past. Of the warmth he felt near Hannibal, in his heart and in his face and between his legs. Like a twitch, he squeezed Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal’s thumb stroked his fingers in response.</p><p>‘Is the loss of a life worth it?’</p><p>‘It’s not a loss. It’s a sacrifice, and a worthy one. Besides, it’s a Greek myth. Patroclus perishes before his time. Punishment for his earlier transgressions.’ Hannibal met Will’s eyes. There was that shine, that glint he was starting to relish. ‘Some people believe the slain man in the sculpture is Achilles. He wanted his ashes mixed with Patroclus’s after his death. I believe both would enjoy the uncertainty. Being confused for one another.’</p><p>‘Being one person.’</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘Patroclus was older, wasn’t he?’</p><p>‘Achilles was the <em>eromenos</em>.’</p><p>Hannibal moved closer. Will could almost feel the vibrations when he spoke. Perhaps it was just the beating of his own heart, rattling his tired body.</p><p>‘Patroclus. Having just become a man, having to teach your beloved how to do the same. How to be <em>human</em>. Dying for the privilege,’ said Will. ‘Or Achilles. Learning from a murderer, outliving him, only to perish because you weren’t fully dipped in the river of Hell as a toddler. Who would you prefer to be?’</p><p>‘Either.’ Will felt the tickle of Hannibal’s exhales on his cheek. The scent of cologne and clean skin. ‘Both.’</p><p>‘Yeah,’ Will murmured. ‘I think so, too.’</p><p>And he turned his face just enough to press his lips against Hannibal’s.</p><p>He’d thought about what it would feel like. Even in the millisecond before the kiss, he worried about the dryness of his lips. The fact he hadn’t shaved in days. That they were in the middle of the street.</p><p>But when their mouths touched, a gale blew out all the worries, the doubts, the lingering suspicions. There was only Hannibal, hot, enveloping. When he felt Hannibal’s tongue coax open his lips, the years seemed to peel right off, feelings and sensations as alive as they had been when he was a teenager, a young man. Transitioning into a real person, and adult with appropriately dulled senses.</p><p>He never was very good at being human.</p><p>With a short, sharp sigh, he cupped Hannibal’s face to bring him closer, if that were possible. Fingers creeping up his spine, clutching the back of his jacket. He knew Hannibal was smiling, and he couldn’t hold back his own grin.</p><p>Separating, but still quite close, they filled the space between them with panting breaths. Hannibal’s lips had never been redder. Will wanted to sink his teeth into them.</p><p>‘We’ve attracted an audience,’ murmured Hannibal.</p><p>Will didn’t need to check to know this was true. This was a tourist spot, after all, and for all its high-minded culturally expansive reputation, Italy was conservative to the core. Dozens of pairs of eyes were on them, testing whether looks could kill. Two men. An age gap. Intruding on the public’s ability to enjoy these perfectly respectable works of art.</p><p>Delightful.</p><p>‘Where can we go?’</p><p>Hannibal’s eyes crinkled, mischievous.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The Uffizi Gallery is shaped like a U, with half the halls either side of the expansive <em>Piazzale degli Uffizi</em>. On the first floor, in the West wing, museum staff were busy filling an empty temporary exhibit room with chairs and refreshments in preparation for the impending talk. In the East wing, in the small Caravaggio hall, Will ravished Hannibal’s mouth.</p><p>Holding him was just as satisfying as Will had imagined. Underneath the suit, he could feel Hannibal’s lean musculature, the complete lack of feminine curves and fat that only made him more exciting. His cock ached for attention, hard and neglected for far too long, and he might have been able to ignore it if it weren’t for the sudden rolling of Hannibal’s hips against his own, the unmistakable sensation of an answering erection.</p><p>With a sigh, Will moved away to look at him, and let out a soft laugh. The hairless white skin around Hannibal’s lips was ruddy from the friction of Will’s stubble. He stroked Hannibal’s cheek.</p><p>‘Rugburn,’ he whispered. ‘Would’ve shaved if I’d known.’</p><p>‘Risks of the job,’ said Hannibal, with a smirk. Will made a noise at the back of his throat, half growl, half moan, when Hannibal punctuated the sentence by grasping Will’s cock through his jeans.</p><p>‘This is crazy. This whole – thing. You. Me. Here.’ A shuddering sigh. Hannibal rubbed up and down his length, leisurely. ‘<em>You’re</em> driving me crazy. Crazi<em>er</em>, probably.’</p><p>‘Then let’s embrace madness together.’</p><p>Will let Hannibal switch their positions, settling back against the cold surface of the hall wall, and lost himself in passionate kisses once more. Romance was always intense on his empathy, but this was positively overwhelming. All five senses of his senses were so saturated in <em>Hannibal</em> that it took a few seconds to realize his belt was being undone.</p><p>‘Hey,’ Will managed, between kisses. ‘Hannibal –‘</p><p>‘We’re quite far away,’ he replied, hot in Will’s ear. ‘Nobody will come. Well, maybe not <em>nobody</em>.’</p><p>Will would’ve rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t keep them off Hannibal as he knelt on the polished brick floor, unzipped Will’s trousers, and rubbed his cheek against the outline of Will’s stiff cock through the fabric of his underwear. Groaning, Will reached for Hannibal’s head, stopping himself when he remembered the work function coming up.</p><p>Hannibal noticed, and smiled as he slipped his fingers under Will’s waistband. ‘Touch me. I brought a comb.’</p><p>‘Of course you did,’ he muttered, but he eagerly ran his fingers through those soft, silky strands of hair.</p><p>The vision of Hannibal nuzzling against the base of his cock, trailing a languid tongue up to the head, was almost as powerful as the pleasure of feeling that soft skin on his most sensitive body part, talented fingers massaging his balls. How many times had he done this?</p><p>It was a relief to finally be taken inside his mouth, hot and wet, cherry lips travelling down his length to the hilt, then back up, again and again. Will’s fist clenched in Hannibal’s hair, prompting a pleased, purr-like moan at the back of his throat, around Will’s cock, that had him bucking into Hannibal’s eager mouth.</p><p>‘Fuck,’ Will whispered. Hannibal looked up at him, cheeks hollow, and it was amazing. It was incredible.</p><p>But.</p><p>Even now, at this peak of vulnerability, at a time when everything else should be veiled in a mist of lust and thrilling bliss and a feeling dangerously close to love, there was something Will couldn’t ignore. Something hidden, in Hannibal’s eyes. Something calculated.</p><p>How could such a perfect boy drop out of the sky and into his lap? Things like this didn’t happen. They never did.</p><p>He didn’t want to think about it.</p><p>Breathing hard, Will dropped his head back against the wall and cleared his mind. The same process he went through when he stood waist-deep in a river, waiting for the tug on his line. Focus on the sounds, the sensations. In the moment. A strong grip around his shaft, pumping in time with that expert mouth. Suckling the come beading at the tip. The cramped space filled with sounds of wet kisses and urgent groans.</p><p>He was close.</p><p>Will let his hazy gaze wander down the wall on his left. It reached the intricate wooden frame of a painting, travelled along the thin arm of an angel whose hand tightly grasped a wrist, a wrist whose clenched fist held – a knife. <em>The Sacrifice of Isaac</em>. With his other hand, Abraham held his son prone against a rock, tightly clasping the back of his neck. Isaac, pale, naked terror in all his features, plump lips open to reveal a searching tongue.</p><p>It shouldn’t make him feel this way.</p><p>His breaths were becoming shallow. The pressure grew deep between his legs, a spring coiling tighter, tighter.</p><p>He looked away, to anything else.</p><p>He landed on the painting on the wall opposite. Towering, righteous, vicious. Judith slaying Holofernes. But unlike the statue, this wasn’t before the execution, or even after, but <em>during</em>. While her handmaiden pinned down the General’s body, Judith carved into his throat without a hint of doubt. He struggled in vain, eyes wide open, conscious and terrifyingly <em>helpless</em>. Jets of arterial blood squirted high over the fist Judith had clenched in Holofernes’ beard, soaked the white bed sheets, pooled under a body which would doubtless be thrashing in its death throes. Will knew.</p><p>He’d seen it happen before.</p><p>With a gasp, his hand tensed in Hannibal’s hair, holding him in place as Will spent himself down his throat in powerful spurts. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then a dribble, sucked up like a fine oyster.</p><p>As Will steadied himself, legs trembling, Hannibal got to his feet and dusted off his knees. The juxtaposition of the exquisite tailored suit with his wild hair and ravaged mouth, shiny with spit and come, was as endearing as it was attractive. The crotch of his pants strained with an unattended hardness.</p><p>Human after all.</p><p>‘Hey, er,’ Will said, shakily tucking himself away, ‘I haven’t – well, I’ve only been with – but I know what feels good. Let me –‘</p><p>He brought Hannibal closer, with an arm around the small of his back, and tentatively groped the outline of his erection. It was the first time he’d touched another man’s cock. So similar, but different. What else could they do together? What did Hannibal look like, under those designer clothes? The prospects excited him.</p><p>Kissing Hannibal’s neck, listening to the pleased hum it elicited, he moved to unzip his fly – but Hannibal gently pushed him away, just enough so they could look at each other.</p><p>‘It’s sweet of you,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t expect any less.’</p><p>‘You haven’t –‘</p><p>‘For now, I have exactly what I want. Your shadow on my face, your taste on my tongue, and your come in my stomach for the rest of the night.’</p><p>Hearing those words in Hannibal’s inscrutable accent did things to Will he’d rather not admit. He nodded, halfheartedly took his hand away, and kissed him. His mind was blank, his senses blurry. If he wanted to, he could ignore the illusory flavor of blood on the younger man’s lips.</p><p>So he did.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Did you have trouble finding it?’</p><p>‘No, er, not at all.’</p><p>While Hannibal hung up his jacket, Will looked around the apartment. The front door led directly to the living and dining rooms, connected through an open archway. The place was small, but, predictably, gorgeous. The rich red wallpaper was strikingly similar to that of the Uffizi’s <em>Tribuna</em> hall, where Will had first felt an odd connection to the young man he’d since got to know <em>quite </em>well. Beautiful paintings and antiques filled up every available space, most shining bright gold and silver. Catholic iconography was rife, with elaborate crucifixes and statuettes on display almost anywhere the eye happened to land.</p><p>‘Not a big fan of minimalism, I take it,’ said Will.</p><p>‘A movement I reject completely. We take nothing in death. Why live with nothing in life?’</p><p>Will’s own home in Wolf Trap was similarly cluttered, though not with such high-brow artifacts. Fishing equipment, books, dog paraphernalia – a few decades before, the difference would have made him feel small. An unwashed kid from Podunk Louisiana. Now, it was mostly charming.</p><p>‘I’m fortunate to rent these rooms,’ Hannibal continued. ‘They belong to a distant relative who split her time between Florence and Rome. She’s sadly too old to keep commuting.’</p><p>Deliberately not looking in his direction, Will made a confused noise. ‘It’s, er, it’s further away than I would have thought.’</p><p>‘It’s close to the market, but near enough to the gallery that I can walk.’</p><p>‘Uh-huh. When you ran into me, at breakfast, a few weeks back. You said you lived around the corner. West. It was a surprise. Coming so far East.’</p><p>A pause.</p><p>‘I briefly stayed at a hotel near <em>Piazza del Mercato Nuovo</em> when I first arrived in Florence. I must have misspoken.’</p><p>‘Ah.’</p><p>Neither of them said anything else. Will’s footsteps were cushioned by the thick Persian carpet. He inspected a display cabinet depicting Jesus on the cross. Skinned knees, bleeding gashes on his ribcage, even down to minute trickles of blood oozing from where the crown of thorns dug into his forehead.</p><p>‘I didn’t take you for a Catholic.’</p><p>‘My father told me our family was one of the last to abandon paganism, when Lithuania converted in the Middle Ages. We practiced in secret until well into the 19<sup>th</sup> century. Allegedly. Still, Catholicism is the belief of choice, nowadays, and I appreciate the aesthetic.’</p><p>When Will glanced over, he saw Hannibal leaning against the back of an ornate antique velvet sofa, watching him.</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>‘I’m happy to see you.’</p><p>Will smiled. ‘You saw me yesterday.’</p><p>‘Not in my home.’</p><p>Will felt a throb at the words.</p><p>That unforgettable tryst in the Uffizi was a few days ago, and they’d been in somewhat of a limbo ever since. Will woke up the following morning with the sense that he could easily panic if he let himself fret about power dynamics and implications and the future, so he didn’t. An ability to detach, at least temporarily, was one of the many perks granted by the experience of aging. After he’d explained the situation in general terms, leaving out any salubrious details, Beverly encouraged him:</p>
<ul>
<li>
<em>you deserve it, will. kid knows what’s up. just roll with it and enjoy your euro boytoy.<br/>
<br/>
</em><em>ps if you think you can avoid an induction into the bi gossip club you’re sadly mistaken</em>
</li>
</ul><p>Even Alana was more responsive than usual, perhaps relieved of the awkward knowledge of Will’s crush on her. She’d been the one to suggest he splurge out on some nicer clothes, some fitted Italian slacks and a close-cut short-sleeved button-up. She’d responded to a photo of the final outfit with a picture of his dog, Winston. His tail was blurry, mid-wag, and he had a post-it note stuck to his head that read “<em>doggone great, dad!"</em></p><p>Right now, these clothes felt far too tight. He and Hannibal had been able to sneak a couple of kisses, but late-night talks at the Gallery and Pazzi suddenly wanting Will’s opinion meant they’d barely touched.</p><p>In Hannibal’s home, there was no one here to judge them, no distractions.</p><p>It felt like walking into the lion’s den.</p><p>A splash of color in his peripheral vision piqued Will’s interest. On the pecan-coloured dinner table, quite different from the reds and golds and wooden shades of the apartment, stood a small egg-shaped white vase. A thin branch stuck out almost vertically, splitting off like antlers at the very top, each fractal draped with a trail of pale lavender wisterias. A long reed arced over the flowers, like a crooked old man, never touching the plants below. Leaves split off the back of the reed, suggestions of movement in a still piece.</p><p>‘They’re all Tuscan plants. I always try to source my flowers and ingredients locally.’</p><p>‘You made this?’</p><p>The amazement in Will’s voice must have been clear, because Hannibal’s chest swelled a little with pride. ‘It’s not entirely original. My Uncle’s wife enjoyed a classically Japanese education, befitting her nobility. She was trained in the art of <em>ikebana</em>, traditional flower arranging. She taught me the essentials. But this particular piece is a close copy of an arrangement she made for me on the occasion of my graduation.’</p><p>The delicate composition made Will feel oddly protective, the way he did when he saw a particularly pathetic stray on the side of the road. It was so fragile. Beautiful.</p><p>It reminded him of the crime scene in the <em>Mercato Centrale.</em></p><p>This was startling, made him look again. There’d been wisterias under the bodies, too. Pazzi’s men told him the flowers were typical of the region, easily bought or picked in the wild. The petals dripping out of the dead woman’s mouth, the more aged cadaver bent over her. A reed over a young bouquet.</p><p>‘I chose the flowers carefully,’ said Hannibal. He was filling a wine glass from a decanter, the drink almost mahogany in color. ‘In Japanese Kabuki tradition, wisterias symbolize tenderness, sensitivity. Sensuality.’</p><p>Will took the proffered glass, looking away from the arrangement. The case was polluting all of his thoughts. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair, not on himself, not on Hannibal. But he couldn’t shake the deep unease at the back of his mind.</p><p>‘Dinner is almost ready. Please feel free to explore.’</p><p>‘Need any help?’</p><p>‘No,’ Hannibal grinned, half in half out of the kitchen, ‘I want to surprise you.’</p><p>Even that was enough to make Will flush. His libido had been on a hair trigger all week.</p><p>Sipping his spicy wine, Will crossed into the dining area, avoiding the wisterias, and looked over the black and white photos littering the lacquered wood cabinets. He searched the faces of the people in the portraits for similarities to Hannibal. How distant <em>was </em>this relative? Did Hannibal look more like his mother, or his father? There was an unmistakably masculine angularity in his chiseled features, but a feminine roundness, too, a sensibility. Will wanted to know.</p><p>He wondered if Hannibal wanted to know about him, too.</p><p>Scanning the large room, Will found the dark hallway on the other side of the room beckoning to him. He quickly glanced at the closed kitchen door, then back at the open doorway. Hannibal said he was free to explore. Surely, that meant the whole apartment.</p><p>
  <strike>(what if he found something he’d rather not see?)</strike>
</p><p>With a nervous sip of his wine, Will quickly walked to the corridor, hesitated for just a moment, and stepped inside.</p><p>A large crucifix stood at the end of the hallway, under a glass dome, surrounded by colorful fresh flowers. There were two doors along the leftmost wall, shut tight. If they were locked, regardless of how much it would weigh on his mind, he’d let them be. Forget about it.</p><p>Will tried the first handle. It gave.</p><p>The bathroom was barely less ornate than the rest of the place. Ivory wallpaper, a claw-footed bathtub, a sink underneath an enormous Venetian mirror, shaped like a crest and subtly accented with gold. Will avoided looking at his reflection, feeling like a misbehaving schoolchild.</p><p>On a wooden table, beside a small statue of Saint Sebastian, sat a white box. It was out place among the finery, a simple thin cardboard container. Inside, Will found half a dozen vials of clear liquid and sealed hypodermic needles, on a pile of disposable latex gloves.</p><p>The fruity aftertaste of wine in Will’s mouth turned rancid.</p><p>Forcing himself out a frozen state, he picked up a vial and read the label. Underneath the brand name, he saw the active ingredient. Sumatriptan.</p><p>And he let out the breath he’d been holding.</p><p>He recognized it. His own doctor had floated the idea of a prescription, back when he was particularly stressed. It was a migraine medication. It was common. And it didn’t cause paralysis, or loss of consciousness, or <em>anything</em> Will had seen <em>Il Mostro</em> do to his victims.</p><p>Will closed the box, picked up his wine glass, and hurried back to the hallway.</p><p>The second door revealed a bedroom. He was even more reticent about going inside. There were any number of reasons to enter a bathroom, but a bedroom was intensely intimate. Will valued that privacy.</p><p>He stood at the threshold. Did he trust Hannibal? Did Hannibal trust him?</p><p>They’d known each other for such a short amount of time. Talking of trust was foolhardy. And yet…</p><p>‘<em>Elkis</em>,’ Will almost dropped his glass, spinning to stand a breath away from his lover’s face, ‘<em>ar baubas ateis ir tav</em><em>ęs pagaus</em>.’</p><p>Hannibal stood there, smiling. The light from the living room illuminated one side of his face, casting shadows on the rest, carving his features more strongly.</p><p>‘Behave, or <em>baubas</em> will get you. My father would tell me this whenever he caught me snooping around his office.’</p><p>‘<em>Baubas</em>,’ Will repeated. His heart was in his throat, but slowly slipping back into place. ‘A bogeyman?’</p><p>‘In a sense. Vestigial paganism. It has red, pinprick eyes, long hanging arms, crooked fingers. It lurks in dark, forgotten corners of the house – of which we had many. My family said it had taken refuge in our home, because we held out our heresy for so long.’</p><p>‘It was the <em>loup-garou </em>for me,’ said Will. ‘If I got in trouble with the women who’d watch me while my father worked.’</p><p>‘The werewolf.’</p><p>Will nodded.</p><p>‘It’s the first time I’ve heard you speak Lithuanian.’</p><p>The hard edge around Hannibal’s eyes softened. He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to Will’s lips, and murmured:</p><p>‘Certainly not the last.’</p><p>He gestured for Will to follow, but after a few steps, Will grabbed his hand in a quiet bid to stay put. Hannibal regarded him, curious, as Will groped for the right words.</p><p>‘How are your migraines?’ he asked.</p><p>Hannibal stood quite still for a second, maybe five, then smiled.</p><p>‘Better.’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The huge slab of steak oozed on the first cut, mingled clear juices and bright red blood. The rich brown crust gave way to deep pink marble, with barely any transition between the two. The flesh was buttery soft and yielding to the knife.</p><p>Across the table, Hannibal drank his wine and watched Will assembled his first forkful. Meat, a scoop of the buttery potato quenelle on the side, a slice of asparagus. Hannibal hadn’t touched his plate.</p><p>‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Will asked.</p><p>‘I want to see what you think. Immediate reaction. Then, I can eat.’</p><p>It was almost enough to give a man performance anxiety. Will brought the fork up to his face, inhaling the mixture of aromas under his nose, and put it in his mouth.</p><p>Smoky, caramelized outsides gave way to tender meat, almost melting in the mouth. There was a strong flavor of chestnut, a gamey edge Will couldn’t entirely identify, but which married perfectly with the creamy garlic mashed potato, contrasting with the zesty greens.</p><p>It was, without a doubt, the best steak he’d ever had.</p><p>‘Oh my God,’ Will said, as soon as he was able. ‘Hannibal.’</p><p>Genuine mirth was painted clear on Hannibal’s face, and Will wondered, once again, how such a perfect boy could have dropped into his lap out of thin air.</p><p>‘<em>Bistecca alla Fiorentina</em>. It is traditionally prepared on a charcoal grill, but I had to compromise.’</p><p>As Will chewed, and the deep flavors of the meat coated his tongue, he began to feel the tendrils of that creeping suspicion. That fear. His second mouthful was a tougher swallow.</p><p>‘It’s, er, it’s beef?’</p><p>Hannibal nodded. ‘I know that it has a unique profile. Somewhat wild.’ He finally, delicately cut into his own steak. ‘It’s to do with the animal’s diet. Sunflower seeds, I believe, and beer. I’ll have to ask my butcher for details.’</p><p>Through the arc of the flower arrangement between them, Will watched him raise the fork to his mouth, sink his teeth into the soft flesh, close his plump lips around the tines. He chewed, and he never broke eye contact. There was warmth, there. Desire.</p><p>Will couldn’t explain it, barely wanted to contemplate it. But the meal made him long to be touched, and to touch. He wondered if biting into Hannibal’s skin would be similarly satisfying.</p><p>He wasn’t surprised when Hannibal suggested showing him the bedroom right after they finished their main course.</p><p>The room was a clash of styles. On one hand, there was the definite – <em>aura</em> of an older woman about the place, which squared with what Hannibal had said about the circumstances of his rental. Florals that were too antiquated for someone as timeless as him, far more closet space than would be expected for a young man – though, in fairness, Will had yet to see him wear the same thing twice. He wasn’t exactly the industry standard early-20s male.</p><p>He met Hannibal’s serene smile with a nervous grin of his own. The encounter in the Uffizi had been carried by surprise and a non-negligible amount of pent-up sexual tension. Will was just as aroused as he had been when they first kissed, maybe <em>more</em> now he knew exactly how delicious and <em>talented</em> Hannibal <em>was, </em>but he was also very aware of the fact that they were alone in a room with a huge, plush double bed, and that what would happen in it was totally beyond his realm of expertise.</p><p>Not that he could be considered an <em>expert</em> in sex with women.</p><p>And then, there was that nagging feeling. That suspicion.</p><p>Unfounded.</p><p>Maybe not unfounded.</p><p>He caught sight of himself in the antique vanity. Compared with Hannibal, his posture was deplorable and he felt he could count the places where his body wrinkled and sagged. He wasn’t unfit by any stretch of the imagination, but he had almost two decades on his companion, and he felt it, in the bags under his eyes and the lines around his mouth.</p><p>He ambled to the desk in the corner, where Hannibal had pinned several pages of sketches to the walls. They were mostly anatomical studies, referenced from a stack of books, but there were other drawings, too. Will was pleased to see a few more depictions of himself, more accurate than the first picture Hannibal had drawn of him. Looking more closely at the work in progress that lay across the desktop, Will saw his own face again.</p><p>It bore an expression of deepest sorrow, attached to a good approximation of what Will looked like shirtless. He was nude, save for a sheet bunched around his lap and legs, leaning over the supine body of Hannibal. If it weren’t for the sadness in his features, it could be mistaken for a simple scene of a man watching his lover, waiting for him to awaken.</p><p>Hannibal sidled up behind him, and placed his hand over Will’s, on the desk.</p><p>‘I wanted to finish it before you came, but I’ve been busier than expected.’</p><p>‘Is it modeled after a painting?’</p><p>‘Yes.’ Hannibal rested his chin on Will’s shoulder. His words were hot on his neck, each breath a tingle that went down to his crotch. ‘<em>Achilles and the Body of Patroclus</em>. Nikolai Ge.’</p><p>Will gazed at the recumbent figure of Hannibal, on the page. Peaceful, motionless. ‘I thought <em>I</em> was Patroclus.’</p><p>‘Do you want to be?’</p><p>‘Do <em>you</em>?’</p><p>Hannibal’s arms wrapped around Will’s middle in a loose embrace. His lips brushed against Will's ear. ‘You and I share qualities of each of the heroes. I enjoy the idea of your lamenting my ecstatic passing. Wreaking revenge. But I don’t wish to die. Nor do I intend to.’</p><p>With a long, parting glance at the picture, Will turned around in Hannibal’s arms, placed a hand either side of his face. His jaw slotted perfectly in Will’s cupped hands. He felt he could hold him like this for ever.</p><p>‘Then let’s live.’</p><p>It was hard to tell who started kissing who – but unlike the short peck from before, mired in unspoken tension, this kiss was <em>joyful</em>. It didn’t take long for them to end up on the bed, as soft as the pillowy mashed potatoes they’d had on their plates.</p><p>Once horizontal, the kisses became more frenzied. Will felt like a floating brain, hooked up to <em>sensations</em> rather than anything filtered through a body, as though he were one step below blackout drunk. The rustle of fabric on fabric on fabric. Hair like bird down. Teeth and tongues.</p><p>The sound Hannibal made when Will bit his lip was unforgettable, and it shocked him back to the present – at least a little. He nudged Hannibal to lie beside him, both propped up against pillows, one arm wrapped around his shoulders to keep him firmly anchored against his body.</p><p>‘Want to look at you,’ he murmured.</p><p>Hannibal’s hair was a mess, his face flushed with a mixture of arousal and beard burn, his mouth parted and panting and pink. The thin black turtleneck sweater only accentuated his svelte form, highlighting lean muscle. His hard nipples poked the fabric out just enough to be visible. Will absently rolled one between thumb and forefinger, cock twitching impatiently at the sight of the answering bulge in Hannibal’s slacks.</p><p>‘Are you sure it isn’t… too much?’ said Hannibal. His voice was as grave as always, but Will noted an exquisite erotic strain. A harsher foreign edge to his almost transatlantic accent. ‘Watching me. If you’ve only been with women, it might –‘</p><p>‘I want you.’ Half to prove a point, half because he wanted to, Will firmly squeezed Hannibal’s erection through his pants, enjoying the moan it elicited. ‘But it’s very, ah, thoughtful of you to worry about that.’</p><p>‘Purely self-interest, I assure you,’ Hannibal replied with a wicked grin.</p><p>Soon, they’d undone each other’s flies and Will held another man’s naked erection in his hand for the first time. The thought alone was surprisingly titillating, and it helped that Hannibal’s cock was, like the rest of him, beautiful. Unlike Will, a child of 80s America, he was uncut. Will experimentally rolled the skin up and over that pretty pink head, pressing just under the glans. Pre drooled out wantonly.</p><p>Hannibal let out a shuddering sigh, slowly pumping his fist along Will’s length. Seeing him coming undone at the seams, unable to keep up his careful mask – it <em>did</em> things to Will. It gave him impulses he’d seldom felt before. Impulses that only surfaced when he was tightly wrapped in a killer’s skin.</p><p>It was frightening.</p><p>Thrilling.</p><p>As both their movements sped up, erratic, driven by mounting desire and lubricated by dribbled precome, Will tightened his hold around Hannibal’s shoulder and brought him in for kisses that bordered on bites. Hannibal yielded to his forceful explorations, thrusting into Will’s grip, and with a semi-delirious moan, came hard against Will’s palm. Fingers sticky and white, he covered Hannibal’s hand with his own to help him with the final few tugs that tipped him over the edge.</p><p>Endorphins flooded his system. He wanted to sink into the warm bath of afterglow. Enjoy the sensation of Hannibal nuzzling into his neck.</p><p>But things could never be that easy. Not with <em>his</em> brain.</p><p>Because, staring half-lidded at his lap, where his and Hannibal’s hands still held his softening cock, he became aware of the taste of raw meat spreading over his tongue. It was unbidden, and undeniable, and with the momentary reprieve of his peculiar infatuation afforded by resolved sexual tension, Will allowed himself to admit that the flower arrangement wasn’t a coincidence. That the old landlady might not exist – or be alive.</p><p>That the steak hadn’t tasted like beef.</p><p>After a few minutes of clinging to each other, when their breathing was back to normal and the air was beginning to feel cool, Will unlatched himself from Hannibal’s side.</p><p>‘Hey, I, er, I should go,’ he said, zipping and straightening up. ‘Getting late.’</p><p>Hannibal looked at him, not responding – and in that moment, Will tensed. That strange, almost supernatural instinct that had been a constant companion all his life hit him over the head with a sledgehammer:</p><p>HE’S GOING TO KILL YOU.</p><p>Then, just as fast, Hannibal’s mask was back in place.</p><p>‘Love me and leave me,’ he said, with a smile.</p><p>Love.</p><p>Will watched Hannibal pull his sweater off, semen-stained, to find something decent to accompany his guest to the front door. It was the most undressed Will had seen him yet. His ribs were plainly visible when he turned this way or that, his body near hairless save for a trail from his waistband to his navel and fair patches under his arms. None of the looseness brought on by years and decades. Will badly wanted to run his fingers along his bare skin. Grab a handful of flesh.</p><p>The room smelled like blood.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pazzi’s coffee steamed in a white and blue mug. A stick figure representation of him with an oversized yellow badge floating beside his chest was painted on one side in shaky brushstrokes. The figure had a huge red smile on its face, the kind Will had yet to see even once on the real Pazzi.</p><p>Will’s coffee sat in a plastic cup, without even the decency to be hot enough to emit vapor.</p><p>Police joe was the same all over the world. Even in Italy.</p><p>Both sipped. Pazzi stared at Will with a harder expression than usual. Will studiously avoided eye contact.</p><p>‘So,’ Will started, setting down his cup. ‘Inspector Pazzi.’</p><p>‘Mr. Graham.’</p><p>‘I’m, er, looking forward to hearing what you’ve got for me.’</p><p>He’d received a call halfway through breakfast (a nicer, smaller coffee), from one of Pazzi’s underlings instead of the man himself, urgently requesting his presence for the results of the forensic examination. So far, however, they’d mostly been drinking coffee in silence, like the world’s worst blind date.</p><p>With a grunt, Pazzi slid a folder across his desk. Will knew one of the reasons why they usually met out in the real world was so the Inspector could smoke his way through the conversation. There had to be a good reason for this rather official setting.</p><p>Will opened the folder with a grateful nod, scanned the pages and photographs. It was a shoddily translated version of the Italian original, but he had plenty of experience deciphering these reports, and besides, they usually only served to complete his understanding rather than teach him something new.</p><p>Sterile photographs of the bodies, cleaned up, on metal slabs. Close-ups of relevant details. The texture of the cut through the female’s abdomen. The minute injection sites. The stitching and gluing around the male’s orifices to delay the spills characteristic of corpse bloat, which would absolutely have ruined the artfully arranged scene.</p><p>Next, details about the victims. This tended to be more interesting.</p><p>Elena Tedeschi. She’d been celebrating her twentieth birthday with friends. They’d been a little miffed when she disappeared, only a few hours into the evening, but not <em>surprised</em> – if she met someone, and she usually did, she’d often bounce and text a cheeky apology in the morning.</p><p>Her family learned about her demise before they’d even realized she’d gone missing.</p><p>Sad, but pretty typical of this case. A young person of slight build, easy prey for a night stalker.</p><p>The name of the male – the Zephyr – caught Will’s eye.</p><p>Arnaud Laurent.</p><p>Pazzi must have noted the page he was on, because he commented, ‘very much <em>not </em>Italian.’</p><p>‘No.’</p><p>‘Read more.’</p><p>Eyebrow raised at Pazzi’s odd behavior, Will returned to the short profile preceding the autopsy report. Laurent was Belgian, an art prodigy with few friends and an estranged family who spent more time looking inwards than out. He’d dropped off social media months ago, abandoned his student flat, but, as he was old enough to look after himself and prone to bouts of self-isolation, he hadn’t officially been filed as a missing person.</p><p>It wouldn’t have taken months for Laurent’s body to decay to the point it had. Just around a week. The corpse must have been kept on ice.</p><p>When he reached the final few sentences, Will felt an itch work its way up his throat.</p><p>On contacting his acquaintances, the Florentine investigative team discovered that they hadn’t worried about their disappeared friend, because they’d assumed he was far too busy with his dream internship to keep in touch.</p><p>Will paused. When he turned the page, to the autopsy, Pazzi would know he’d finished reading. Will knew what he’d reveal.</p><p>Perhaps he’d known from the start.</p><p>Either the silence was too long, or Pazzi’s patience simply ran out, because he leaned back in his chair, contempt carved into every line of his face, and said, ‘it does not say where Laurent’s internship was.’</p><p>‘No. It doesn’t.’</p><p>‘Do you think you can tell me?’</p><p>Will said nothing. He felt like a magic eye picture. Pazzi could see him. The other officers saw him, on his way in. But sitting in this chair, holding this folder, still tasting that mediocre machine coffee, his soul and his body seemed on two different planes.</p><p>‘Uffizi,’ Pazzi said. ‘He was the first chosen for the curator’s internship. Hannibal Lecter was the second in line. But he was called up after Laurent didn’t show on the day he was supposed to arrive.’</p><p>The magic eye picture came in and out of frame, Will’s mind and body intersecting, then separating, again and again – with each heartbeat. His stomach felt ice cold.</p><p>‘I believe he is connected. And I believe you also think this.’</p><p>The ice spread through Will’s veins. Anchored him in the moment.</p><p>Someone had said it out loud.</p><p>Finally.</p><p>‘You’re right. I have.’</p><p>Pazzi’s thick fingers twitched. Yellow stains where he’d held his cigarettes for the better part of his life. His insides had to be thoroughly rotten. Spongy and grey.</p><p>‘Why did you not say anything?’</p><p>‘I didn’t want to ruin a young man’s life on a hunch.’</p><p>‘A hunch? Seeing through people is your specialty, Mr. Graham.’</p><p>‘It’s a skill. It’s not magic.’</p><p>‘That is how you were sold to me. Magic.’</p><p>‘We’re both old enough to know fairy tales aren’t real.’</p><p>‘Then why do you continue to see that boy?’</p><p>They watched each other.</p><p>‘You see, Mr. Graham,’ Pazzi set his elbows on his desk and hunched over, the picture of a disappointed headmaster, ‘you are free to comment on the efficacy of the <em>Firenze</em> police. I will be the first to agree that it is chaos. It is Italy. But the fact of the matter is that <em>you </em>are the one who has been… <em>meeting</em> with Hannibal Lecter, for weeks, without realizing the truth.’</p><p>Faint Italian chattering wafted in from the door, from the walls. Nothing felt real.</p><p>‘What do you want me to say, Inspector Pazzi?’</p><p>‘That you are still part of this investigation.’</p><p>‘Of course I am,’ Will said automatically.</p><p>‘Okay. That’s what I thought.’ He tapped his forefinger against the rim of his mug. The surface of the coffee trembled with each touch. ‘It is easy to become lost, in Florence. Not physically, perhaps. But to lose sight of who you are. And who everyone else is.’</p><p>‘I know. But I’m an expert in losing myself in other people. And I always come back.’</p><p>Pazzi nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.</p><p>‘I am not… <em>certain</em> your friend is the killer, but I believe he knows more than he says. And if we are going to be prudent, and assume he might be <em>Il Mostro</em>, then time spent with you is time he is not hunting.’</p><p>‘I was thinking the same thing.’</p><p>‘We have not been able to find fingerprints or DNA, but it could still happen. With such elaborate crime scenes, it takes time to search through everything. If you could bring me a sample, a fingerprint…’</p><p>‘Alright.’</p><p>Seconds ticked by. Pazzi opened a desk drawer.</p><p>‘We don’t usually do this, Mr Graham,’ he said, depositing a gun in its holster in front of Will, ‘but these are… <em>unusual</em> circumstances. Your identification already allows you to carry it. No officer will stop you.’</p><p>Will removed the gun from its leather strap and felt its weight in his hand. Unlike the Glocks he was used to, the Beretta was made almost entirely of metal, and was far heavier and bulkier than what he’d been trained in. Still, he knew these were police staples all over the world, with a reputation for accuracy and cushioning recoil. That’d probably be enough to offset any miscalculations brought about by the difference in weight. If he had to use it.</p><p>If he had to shoot Hannibal.</p><p>The thought made his pulse race.</p><p>Mistaking his silence for apprehension, Pazzi cleared his throat. ‘It’s just to be safe, Mr. Graham. You have used a gun before, yes?’</p><p>‘<em>Of course</em> I have.’</p><p>
  <em>I’ve killed.</em>
</p><p>Though he didn’t say that.</p><p>Pazzi raised his mug to his lips, eyebrows up. ‘Okay. I am just making sure.’</p><p>Will regretted the edge in his tone, but Pazzi’s attitude couldn’t help but grate on his nerves. He re-holstered the weapon and set it aside for when he left.</p><p>‘I wish you’d…’ Will stopped himself, and sighed. ‘I wish you’d have a little <em>faith</em> in me, Inspector Pazzi.’</p><p>It seemed more diplomatic to say that instead of “<em>respect</em>.”</p><p>Pazzi stared at him, expressionless. He drank his coffee, smacked his lips, and gestured to the report.</p><p>‘Maybe you should finish reading it.’</p><p>So Will did.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The ticket vendor looked at Will with a bright smile. Will raised an eyebrow at Hannibal, who was sporting a very self-satisfied smirk.</p><p>‘She’s asking if we want a family ticket,’ he said.</p><p>Will felt the backs of their hands brush, and was glad he didn’t blush easily.</p><p>‘One way to make a guy feel old,’ he muttered. ‘What’s the discount like?’</p><p>‘Half price.’</p><p>‘Well, then we’d be stupid not to.’</p><p>As they paid and made their way into the Accademia, Will was acutely aware of how <em>normal</em> it all felt. He had a gun locked up in his hotel room safe. He’d only just spoken to Pazzi a few hours ago. He’d read the autopsy reports. More than almost anyone else, he <em>knew</em> people weren’t what they seemed, the rank secrets hidden under lock and key in the basements of their psyches.</p><p>But Hannibal made him feel wanted.</p><p>For all his social troubles and unfettered issues, Will knew his worth. He was good at what he did, be that in the field or in a classroom. The arrests he was credited with, the journal publications, the <em>very </em>comfortable salary – they spoke for themselves.</p><p>That didn’t make <em>existing</em> any less lonely.</p><p>He listened to Hannibal’s explanations of the pieces they saw, focusing more on the soothing drone of his voice rather than on the information itself. Their affinity seemed almost – predetermined. Preternatural. Will wondered if things would be different if he had anyone else to rely on in this city. Perhaps being so far from home made it easier to connect with someone so different.</p><p>Yet so similar.</p><p>Hannibal had proposed they visit a different museum, for a little change of scenery. Though the Accademia didn’t have quite the same pull as the Uffizi, it was nothing to sneer at. While it failed in its original mission as <em>the </em>Michelangelo museum, it had amassed an impressive catalogue of work by that artist and many others besides, with the enormous original sculpture of David as its main draw.</p><p>There was more than a hint of the sacred about the way David was displayed, in his own domed alcove at the end of a long corridor flanked by Michelangelo’s supplicant Slaves – unfinished sculptures, just torsos and half-carved bodies trapped forever in heavy marble slabs. It was later in the day, nearing closing time, and only a few stragglers remained in the Accademia’s halls. Will and Hannibal had ample space to wander around the statue and examine it from all angles.</p><p>‘It’s bigger than I expected,’ said Will.</p><p>‘Everyone says that. The inverse of the Mona Lisa. David is a little over five meters. I believe that’s around seventeen feet.’</p><p>Will let out a low whistle, eyes riveted on the masterpiece above. There were a fair few copies scattered around Florence, but for Will, the strongest association had to be with the massive copper replica in <em>Piazzale Michelangelo</em>. A Mediterranean golem watching over Florence. It was one of the first things Will had truly <em>seen</em> in the city, after all.</p><p>Seen through <em>Il Mostro</em>’s eyes.</p><p>Had that David glimpsed Hannibal, carrying Violetta Assanti’s motionless, but very <em>conscious</em> body to the Rose Garden?</p><p>He was gazing up at the marble sculpture with a scholar’s air. Will was sure he’d seen David dozens of times already, but he studied it just as attentively as he doubtless did the first time. Watching the line of Hannibal’s profile, the clean shape of his slicked hair, the delicate folds in his expensive button-up shirt, Will imagined him in the act of killing. Disheveled, dirty. Flushed with the effort of overpowering someone his own size. Preparing a dose of muscle relaxant in a sterile syringe, something that would keep them still, but that wouldn’t dull the senses – vecuronium, perhaps. He’d seen the bottles of sumatriptan in the bathroom, but he’d made no effort to swipe one, get a sample he could test. He hadn’t wanted to.</p><p>Back in the Accademia, Hannibal met his eyes, and smiled.</p><p>‘The statue was moved here for conservation in the late nineteenth century. It was entombed in brick to protect it from air raids during the Second World War. And yet, its foot was destroyed in the early 1990s by a mad artist who’d snuck in a hammer.’</p><p>Will looked at where sculpture met plinth. The left toes were, in fact, badly damaged, clearly pieced back together from rubble.</p><p>‘Did the artist explain why?’</p><p>‘Said it was a message from God. But… I believe we both have a better idea of the truth, don’t we?’</p><p>Ah. That comely glimmer in Hannibal’s eye. Will wondered if his own features showed the same knowing signs.</p><p>‘To destroy something beautiful,’ he heard himself say.</p><p>‘To glimpse God.’</p><p>‘Glimpsing God without being a prophet means instant death. In the Bible, at least.’</p><p>‘It makes you wonder what He’s trying to hide.’</p><p>With that, Hannibal glanced at his watch, checked to make sure no one was paying attention, took Will’s hand, and quick-stepped him to a door marked Employees Only. A short corridor connected the public part of the museum to a series of service entrances. Though he dutifully followed Hannibal, curious, Will squeezed his fingers to call his attention.</p><p>‘Where are we going?’ he whispered.</p><p>‘Have you ever been to a museum after hours?’</p><p>‘I assume I’m about to.’</p><p>‘Correct. Considering the treasures the Accademia holds, its security is lackluster. Come.’</p><p>They ducked through one of the doors, into a storage room with a few paintings wrapped in canvas and some elaborate Renaissance-era ceramics, painted in blues and golds. A small window allowed the still strong evening light to shine through, casting everything in dusty chiaroscuro shadows.</p><p>‘We won’t have to wait long,’ Hannibal said. ‘They’ll be hurrying to lock up. <em>Fiorentina</em>’s playing <em>Juventus</em>. No Florentine will miss a match against their arch-rivals.’</p><p>‘High-brow folks who work in museums care about soccer?’</p><p>‘I’ve never known an Italian to not care about football.’</p><p>‘The great leveller.’</p><p>Flashing him a quick grin, Hannibal set about inspecting the items in the room. He crouched to look at a vase, back turned, and Will was struck by how <em>small</em> he looked. He was taller than Will, of course, but he was slender, and he was young. Will felt like he could close the distance between them in a couple of steps and wrestle him into submission in moments – but that was surely the image Hannibal <em>wanted</em> to project. To foster vulnerability, seem relatable and even harmless.</p><p>He didn’t quite succeed. But he did well enough to fool the average Joe.</p><p>To make Will want to fool himself.</p><p>That thought gave him pause. Hannibal made him feel understood, and perhaps more importantly, <em>wanted</em>. And deep, deep down, more than the possibility of a hidden serial killer persona, the idea that Hannibal had been faking this desire was more frightening. It was nonsensical, of course, but try as he might, Will seemed fated to defy the rational.</p><p>Not much later, Hannibal pressed an ear against the door, and counted the seconds. Silence. With a nod in Will’s direction, he exited into the corridor, then back into the museum.</p><p>Though the electric lights were off, plenty of residual sunshine entered through the glass ceiling over David, and the entire majestic hall only seemed more dramatic for it. Will wanted to explore, but stuck close to the walls, wary of cameras. Hannibal noticed, and beckoned him over from a far less hidden spot.</p><p>‘Plenty of dead angles. Walk in my footsteps, and you’ll be safe.’</p><p>‘How do you know that?’</p><p>‘Friends on the inside. Museum staff talk.’</p><p>‘Sounds like you’ve been planning this little venture for a while.’</p><p>Hannibal simply grinned in response. Pearly whites shiny in the low light. Sharp. Will followed him, and they began to wander through the Accademia.</p><p>Though the halls were built to impress, they weren’t particularly spacious, but being alone made their proportions seem grander. The statues were like Titans, waiting for their souls to return from Tartarus to wreak havoc on a world which had wronged them. The only sound was of their footsteps, weaving around from blind spot to blind spot. It felt liminal. Once they left this place, time would start up again, ticking to inevitable disaster.</p><p>They were back beside Michelangelo’s Prisoners when Will grabbed the cuff of Hannibal’s sleeve.</p><p>‘Yes?’ he said.</p><p>Painted white and posed correctly, Hannibal would fit right in with the objects on display. Every line and curve of his face, his hands, seemed carved out by a master. The same was true of his body – at least, what Will had seen, so far.</p><p>He wanted to witness it again. Before everything shattered.</p><p>Hannibal let out a shocked, delighted moan when Will pushed him against a column, muffled when Will stuck his tongue in his mouth. Deepening the kiss with a pleased sigh, he wrapped his arms around Will’s shoulders to bring him closer, let Will undo the buttons of his shirt to <em>finally</em> touch the warm, soft skin of his stomach, his chest, pliable over a core of hard, lean muscle.</p><p>Feeling Hannibal’s eager erection twitch against his thigh, Will shifted his attention downwards, and in a couple of deft moves, had Hannibal’s cock out in the open and in his hand. Their lips hadn’t separated once, and jerking him off by touch alone was its own special thrill. Will had to rely on physical cues, on the way Hannibal’s breath hiccuped when he teased the head just <em>so</em>, on Hannibal’s teeth nipping his lips when he flicked his wrist just <em>right</em>.</p><p>‘My jacket pocket,’ Hannibal managed to say between renewed assaults on his mouth, ‘inside, right.’</p><p>Will wasn’t surprised to find a small sachet of lube where he’d been instructed to look, warm from riding around against Hannibal’s body.</p><p>‘Did you plan this?’ Will panted. ‘Or do you just keep some on you for emergencies?’</p><p>‘Which do you find more attractive?’</p><p>The thought that sex had been on Hannibal’s mind all day made Will’s dick pulse, but against a faint backdrop of frustration. Hannibal was always leading this dance. Even when he wanted Will to take charge, he was the one who sent the signals, who made requests both implicit and explicit.</p><p>It was Will’s turn to be in charge.</p><p>He grabbed Hannibal by the lapels and almost tossed him front-first against the waist-high glass barrier surrounding one of the unfinished sculptures. The sight of him bent over the glass, looking back over his shoulder with obvious feverishness, ignited a new sort of frenzy in Will’s heart. He tore open the packet, squeezed about half the slick substance onto his fingers, and quickly worked two digits inside. Though Hannibal was tight, moving was easy. He wanted this, hungrily took a third finger, shivered with pleasure at Will’s searching touch. Will felt he could absolutely fuck him right then, barely any preparation needed, but the anticipation only made it better. Kneading the pale flesh of Hannibal’s ass with one hand, feeling the warmth around his other fingers at the same time, listening to the noises escaping Hannibal’s throat –</p><p>Knowing the monster he might <em>be</em>.</p><p>It was surreal. Overwhelming.</p><p>Will fumbled with his belt, far more eager than when he’d lost his virginity, months before Hannibal was even born. His cock hit the base of Hannibal’s spine with an obscene slap and a dribble of precome, and Will took a second to admire the sight before him, visualising how far inside he’d reach, even as Hannibal arched his back, presenting himself, impatient.</p><p>Once they left this place, time would start again.</p><p>Will spread the remaining lube over his length, with a gentle hand, almost fearful he’d come if he touched himself too vigorously. The past few weeks had him feeling more like a teenager than he ever had in his actual youth. He gripped Hannibal’s hip with one hand, used the other to guide himself. Teased Hannibal’s hole with his cockhead, slathering it with eager fluids. He wondered if Hannibal would be able to feel the drumming of his heart, pounding all the way down into his prick.</p><p>Then he pushed in.</p><p>One could have heard a pin drop.</p><p>Will’s mouth was open in a silent moan, savoring the sensation of being immersed in <em>Hannibal,</em> inch by torturous inch, until he was flush against Hannibal’s ass. Fully inside. Merged. Soulmates from Ancient Greek tales, reunited. A fanciful notion of staying like this forever crossed his mind. Another piece of art to add to the gallery.</p><p>Hannibal trembled beneath him.</p><p>It felt good. It felt really good.</p><p>Will leaned closer to wrap a hand around Hannibal’s cock, neglected and weeping and <em>achingly</em> hard, much more than when they’d brought each other off in his bedroom. It made Will want to see him ruined further. Without another second’s delay, he reared back, and started to thrust.</p><p>Each movement fucked a gasp out of Hannibal, made him tighten and release around Will’s cock, and it wasn’t long before he started to feel the tell-tale signs of a building orgasm. He didn’t want to, though, not yet. Not when it meant –</p><p>Not <em>the</em> end. But <em>an </em>end.</p><p>‘Touch yourself,’ he said, gruff, plucking Hannibal’s hand off the glass barrier and putting it over his own dick. Will saw his arm move in the arrhythmic tempo of a man nearing the edge, and straightened his back some, pounding slower. Wanting to make it last.</p><p>He couldn’t do anything about the tantalizing noises coming from below, so he let his eyes wander forwards in an effort to distract himself and keep the orgasm at bay, to the unfinished sculpture towering over them, nine feet tall. Hannibal had called it the Atlas Slave, pointed out the statue’s classic pose, all set to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. Fated never to live out his purpose. While his well-defined torso was carved out to perfection, each muscle outlining the true core strength of a wrestler’s physique, and his thighs and biceps bulged with effort, his hands and feet faded into solid rock. His head was non-existent, eternally trapped in blocky marble. Even his genitals weren’t much more than a suggestion atop craggy stone.</p><p>Atlas was whole, but he was dismembered.</p><p>Dismembered.</p><p>Will closed his eyes, now desperately trying to focus on the sex. On the wonderful warmth of Hannibal’s supple skin, on the pulsing in his taint as he edged closer to the precipice. Anything to distract from the visions swimming just out of sight, glimpsed and then gone, but never forgotten.</p><p>Bodies bisected. Dissected. The sweet and sour smell of active decay. Insects buzzing, burrowing in cavities – natural, and man-made.</p><p>The boar, bleeding out at Will’s feet. Glugging out the bullet wound like freshly uncorked wine. Metallic, musky. A beady eye struggling to understand.</p><p>An armed suspect, dying by his hand.</p><p>Hannibal braced himself against the barrier and moved to meet Will’s thrusts. Both of them were growing erratic in the race to the end, but their discordant notes somehow synced up in an ecstatic symphony. Breaths quickening. Hands grasping. Fingers digging.</p><p>Tense.</p><p>And release.</p><p>This is how the world ends.</p><p>Will hugged Hannibal’s back, panting between his shoulder blades. He’d come more than he expected. Four solid shots, deep inside. He’d been aroused, perhaps more than ever before. But he’d enjoyed more release than usual over the past week and a half, and he’d surprised himself with how much his old body was still capable of.</p><p>Not <em>that</em> old.</p><p>Perhaps compared to Hannibal.</p><p>Hannibal was quite still. His back expanded and contracted with each deep breath, slowing down to normal, but he said nothing. Will felt sweat where their bare skin touched, mingling, cooling. Reluctantly, he eased himself out, and stumbled back against the pillars. He noted, with a mixture of annoyance and a certain pride, that Hannibal’s come had hit the glass barrier, milky drips pooling on the mirror-finish tiled floor. They’d have to clean that. Thoroughly.</p><p>Hannibal himself remained in position a while longer, bent over the divider. Jacket rumpled, trousers bunched just over his knees. Little red crescents marked where Will’s nails had dug into his hips, his buttocks. A sheen coated his inner thighs, the slick wetness of lubricant and semen. Dregs of a good fuck.</p><p>Will couldn’t ignore the morbid signs pointing to <em>Il Mostro</em>, both empirical and based on his peculiar intuition. Just as he couldn’t ignore the thumping in his chest, stronger than it had any right to be.</p><p>‘Hannibal?’</p><p>This seemed to awaken him. He lifted himself up straight with a grunt, pulled and tucked his clothes in place, and turned to face Will. The mask wasn’t quite in place. Apart from a visible blush, a messed-up hairstyle, and lips plump and ripe from the madness of kissing, there was something behind the eyes.</p><p>Will couldn’t tell what it was. And that was scarier than glimpsing hatred, though perhaps not as frightening as indifference.</p><p>‘Shall we set this place on fire?’</p><p>Will stared at him. There was no change in Hannibal’s countenance.</p><p>‘To destroy something beautiful?’ Will asked. ‘Or just the evidence?’</p><p>A beat. Then, Hannibal smiled. He stepped closer, and when they kissed, it was tender, almost chaste.</p><p>Will thought of Judas.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ul>
<li><em>I’m here.</em></li>
</ul><p>Will put his phone back in his jacket pocket, and gazed up at the mighty arch where the two halves of the Uffizi met. The Arno would be just beyond, visible from parts of the museum. In the night, strong streetlights gave the entire building even more majesty. He noted a light turning on on the top floor, charted a voyage by the windows illuminating in turn until Hannibal stood at the door, waving him over. Will smiled. The gun pressed against his side as he walked, snug in its holster.</p><p>Pazzi hadn’t seemed very impressed when Will dropped the Ziploc bag off, at one of those semi-frequent meetings in the hotel bar.</p><p>‘This has his DNA?’</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>The Inspector picked the bag up and peered at the crumpled tissues inside. After the impulsive rut in the Accademia, they’d cleaned up the scene of the crime with paper towels swiped from the bathroom. Secreting a couple of bunched tissues in his pocket hadn’t been pleasant, particularly when he and Hannibal shared a final kiss before splitting for the night and he <em>knew </em>the evidence was right there, riding against his thigh, but he’d done it.</p><p>‘You’ll probably find some of my fingerprints, too.’ Will chose not to sit, and simply looked down on the Inspector with an impassive expression. ‘Couldn’t be avoided.’</p><p>Pazzi’s lips twitched.</p><p>‘I am not going to ask <em>where</em> you found this, or how you got it –‘</p><p>‘Then don’t,’ Will said, firmly.</p><p>Pazzi almost rolled his eyes, but he pocketed the bag without further comment.</p><p>‘I will pass this to the laboratory right away. As I said to you, we haven’t found any full traces yet, but this could complete a partial match. Thank you.’</p><p>‘It’s why I’m here.’</p><p><em>To fuck the killer?</em> Pazzi’s expression seemed to broadcast. Instead, he said he’d get back to Will in a few days, sooner if there were any updates, and left when he finished his drink. Will expected a few days of reprieve. Some more time before the house of cards came crashing down.</p><p>He hadn’t expected a text message less than 24 hours later.</p><p>And he certainly hadn’t expected an invitation to the Uffizi. Marchegiano, the head of the Florentine police, was riding Pazzi’s ass about pursuing the artistic angle of the murders, had called a meeting. Hannibal would be there to give some guidance, as Zangari had steadfastly refused to aid and abet an investigation he regarded as quasi-sacrilegious. The text message ended with,</p>
<ul>
<li><em>Don’t mention our suspicions to the boy.</em></li>
</ul><p>So he wouldn’t. Even though Will had suspicions of his own. Namely, that Pazzi hadn’t written that. He never texted, only called, for reasons Will didn’t entirely understand but imagined were generational.</p><p>It was far too easy to close his eyes and picture Hannibal, wearing those disposable latex gloves, tapping away at Pazzi’s iPhone. He’d notice the lack of text exchanges between the two of them, of course. But Will had a sneaking suspicion Hannibal wanted him to be doubtful.</p><p>Wanted to see how Will would act.</p><p>React.</p><p>So Will got dressed. He unlocked the safe in his hotel wardrobe, took out the gun and holster. Strapped in. Put on his jacket, checked that the bulge of the gun wasn’t visible at first glance, or second, or third.</p><p>Now, he followed Hannibal through the deserted corridors of the Uffizi, only about a step behind. He could almost feel the Beretta pulsate against his ribs.</p><p>‘Did you expect your investigation would lead you back here?’ Hannibal asked, glancing at his companion with a knowing expression.</p><p>‘No. I thought Inspector Pazzi had made up his mind about the, er, <em>worth</em> of my contributions.’</p><p>‘He certainly speaks his mind. Which is to say… he’s a rather rude gentleman.’</p><p>‘By European standards, maybe. You deal with worse in the States.’</p><p>Will looked out through the windows as they swiftly walked by. The Arno lapped at its banks, like a hungry dog. In the day time, the greenish figure of the David replica across the river might be visible.</p><p>‘When I landed in Florence, I didn’t think I’d have <em>any </em>time to soak up the culture.’ He paused. ‘Then I met you.’</p><p>‘Have you enjoyed it?’</p><p>Hannibal’s tone was playful. Will smiled.</p><p>‘Being with you?’</p><p>‘If that is how you choose to take it…’</p><p>‘Every second.’</p><p>They rounded a corner, and Will stopped as soon as he set eyes on the painting in the corner. <em>The Sacrifice of Isaac</em>. They were passing the Caravaggio room. It was here, hidden in the corner between that canvas and the shield bearing the head of the Medusa, that Hannibal had tasted him.</p><p>‘Reminiscing?’ Hannibal asked nonchalantly.</p><p>‘You could say that.’ Will wanted to get closer, but didn’t. ‘I think I still owe you for that night.’</p><p>‘You’ve more than repaid your debt.’</p><p>‘I don’t think it’s a debt if you <em>want </em>to give.’</p><p>A flash of affection passed over Hannibal’s features, and it was he who approached Will, gave him a light kiss on the cheek. His arms circled Will’s waist and pulled him into a hug. Tentatively, Will returned the embrace, with careful movements.</p><p>Or Hannibal would feel the gun strapped under his armpit.</p><p>He didn’t show any signs of noticing, even as they made their way up another flight of stairs, into a cluster of rooms Hannibal explained were used for restoration of items weathered by age or abuse. Each step made Will’s blood drum in his ears, a steady roar like a tempestuous ocean overheard from a beachfront bedroom.</p><p>‘Is there a –‘ Will said, seconds before Hannibal could open the door to Workshop 3. ‘Is there a bathroom around here?’</p><p>Hannibal seemed to think it over a second more than was reasonable, then pointed at a small corridor off to the right.</p><p>‘Thanks. Just want to wash my face and regroup. Speaking with Pazzi puts me on edge.’</p><p>‘I understand.’ Hannibal smiled. ‘Take your time.’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The cold water felt good, trickling down his shaven cheeks, catching on his eyelashes. The facilities were unisex, single lockable rooms, with a sink and mirror as well as a toilet and shower. Restoration was dirty work.</p><p>Will watched himself in the mirror for a long time. It <em>felt</em> like a long time, at least. Seeking subtle changes, perhaps. Assuring himself that he was the same person who’d come here to catch a killer.</p><p>He couldn’t be sure of that. He couldn’t be sure of anything. He only felt anticipation. Terror. And yet, no desire to run. No flight instinct.</p><p>His jacket hit the floor. Too heavy, too restrictive, and easy to grab hold of. He’d keep his phone in his back pocket. If he had more time, he might have checked in on Alana and Beverly, but he was satisfied with the knowledge that his dogs would be in safe hands, if –</p><p>Well.</p><p>With a measured, deep breath, Will drew the gun out of its holster. Disengaged the safety. Headed out, step by step, closer to Workshop 3. Grabbed the handle. Twisted.</p><p>In a just world, he would’ve peered through a crack in the door, and seen Detective Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi awkwardly making small talk with Hannibal Lecter, a prodigious curatorial intern with a slightly foreboding air, perhaps a touch too much cynicism, but a wealth of talents each more impressive than the last. A man who valued Will. Who’d look over and make eye contact as Will scrambled to hide his weapon, mask his absurd overreaction. Who’d smile. Fondly.</p><p>It wasn’t a just world.</p><p>But he <em>was </em>smiling.</p><p>That same smile that didn’t reach his eyes. That coldness. That look that betrayed an almost alien interest in what happened around him, a visitor from another planet. A creature from the garden of Earthly delights.</p><p>He stood at the far end of the room, in a space cleared of in-progress canvases and materials. A tarp was spread out under his feet, hung up on hooks that probably usually supported paintings and references. Twin lamps, used to keep bright, even illumination on the artists’ renovations, pointed directly at the scene as though they were stage lights. In front of Hannibal, solidly tied to a desk chair with rope around his chest, his arms, his feet, was Inspector Pazzi.</p><p>With blood crusted around his nose and a gash in his skull splitting his hairline, he’d clearly seen better days, but he was awake. By the way he jerked in place and screamed against his gag when he saw Will, he hadn’t been injected with the usual dose of muscle relaxant, either. He was far bigger than <em>Il Mostro</em>’s kills so far, and trained in combat, regardless of how many years he’d last had to fight. It was an impressive catch.</p><p>Will instantly trained his gun on Hannibal. Hannibal returned the favor. His weapon was exactly like Will’s, black metal, shining. Beretta 92. Lifted from Pazzi, no doubt.</p><p>The silent standoff continued for some time. Will didn’t know how long, exactly, though he could easily have counted the seconds by Pazzi’s labored breathing. This was so radically different from a few days ago – a few <em>minutes</em> ago, in the Caravaggio room – it was like his rational brain was catching up with his body, his FBI-honed instincts.</p><p>‘You knew that I knew.’</p><p>Will’s voice sounded odd in the silent room, even to himself. Hannibal cocked his head. The smile hadn’t left his face. The harsh light should have been unflattering, but it only accentuated the youthful quality of his skin, the calculated intelligence in every feature.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘How long?’</p><p>‘How long have <em>you</em> known about me?’</p><p>‘I don’t know. Or I – I realized it, bit by bit, and I –’ Will pressed his lips together, tightly. ‘Elena Tedeschi. The <em>Primavera</em> girl, Chloris. Did you kill her because I couldn’t – because we didn’t go any further, after we went to dinner?’</p><p>Saying it out loud felt ridiculous, with Pazzi as an unwilling witness to the whole debacle. Will avoided looking directly at him, focusing on Hannibal.</p><p>‘Would that make you feel important, Will?’</p><p>‘What would make me feel <em>important</em>,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘is a straight answer.’</p><p>‘Very well. Elena Tedeschi’s death might have been delayed. But I don’t believe it would have been averted. The fates desire what they desire. They brought us together, didn’t they?’</p><p>‘Don’t – <em>twist</em> things,’ Will spat. The Beretta was cool against his sweat-slicked palms. Everything Hannibal said sounded false, <em>derisory</em>.</p><p>Even when it reflected what Will felt, inside.</p><p>‘You’ve killed,’ Hannibal stated.</p><p>It took a second to process. Will hadn’t spoken about that part of his past. But he knew his name was forever tied to one Garret Jacob Hobbs, shot down as he tried to reach his family. Blood spreading through his shirt out of the bullet wound just over his heart, like rays around a dark star. The rattling wheeze of a dying man. And those beady eyes, delirious. There were reams of articles about the case. He’d been commended. He’d stepped up his teaching hours.</p><p>He didn’t like to think about it.</p><p>Eventually, Will nodded.</p><p>‘During a call. He was going to hurt his family. It was out of necessity. Not like you.’</p><p>‘Not like me. I wanted to show you the beauty of it.’</p><p>Pazzi scoffed into his gag – then yelped like a kicked dog when Hannibal smashed the bottom of the grip into his head wound.</p><p>‘Don’t interrupt, Inspector Pazzi,’ Hannibal said, in a measured tone. ‘You’re old enough to know to speak when you’re spoken to. <em>Bene</em>?’</p><p>Blood trickled down into Pazzi’s right eye, and his head lolled dizzily. Will tightened his stance, trying to ignore the malicious shiver that ran up his spine at the sight of this man being brought down to size.</p><p>‘Did you notice? I wanted you to tell me of the beauty of death. I know it has an effect on you. As it does on me. Your reaction to our return to Caravaggio.’</p><p>Will’s lips parted, realizing. Menelaus carrying a dying Patroclus, when they first kissed<em>. The Sacrifice of Isaac</em>, while Hannibal blessed him with his tongue. <em>Achilles and the Body of Patroclus</em>. The dismembered <em>Atlas Slave</em>. All of them had made an impression, seen at the heights of pleasure, pushing him over the edge.</p><p>Had he known Hannibal’s game?</p><p>His breathing became more labored. His head hurt.</p><p>‘You told me my artwork was exceptional, but we are both artists in the field of death. I am just more prolific. I want us to be collaborators. I want you.’</p><p>‘Don’t <em>lie</em> to me.’</p><p>‘I have never told you a lie.’</p><p>Will’s arms were beginning to burn from the effort of maintaining his position. His heart felt like it might explode. Pazzi’s eyes were wide, head shaking from side to side. Hannibal ignored him.</p><p>‘I offered to aid you with your investigation because I wanted to see what you would do. How far you would get. Curiosity. It grew from there.’</p><p>Moral arguments seemed like a waste of time. This was beyond that. For all his intelligence and knowledge and youthful pomp and circumstance, Hannibal was sick. Badly sick.</p><p>And Will…</p><p>‘More than once, I thought you wanted to kill me,’ he said.</p><p>‘And you wanted to kill me.’</p><p>‘Where does that leave us?’</p><p>Hannibal’s only reply was a silent stare. A stare which said far more than spoken words. Because, for once, there was no veil. No presence. In the black holes of his pupils, Will saw a predator. Half a person. Someone who understood what it was to be human in a theoretical sense, who appreciated Man’s ability to create and destroy and surpass His limits. Who saw something similar in Will. Admired his capacity to not just understand, but <em>feel</em> what others did.</p><p>The air smelled of raw meat.</p><p>Slowly, making his movements clear, Hannibal lowered the gun. Engaged the safety. Dropped it on the ground with a loud, metallic clatter. Pazzi struggled in his chair, trying to source the sound. His eyes were off Will. Hannibal’s weren’t.</p><p>They never were.</p><p>Perhaps they had been on him since before he was born. Watching Will struggle through one damn thing after another, maladjusted, maladroit. The police, then college, then the FBI, all by the skin of his teeth. Being born at just the right moment to slither into Will’s life and be – a reflection. A missing piece.</p><p>
  <em>I want you.</em>
</p><p>A burst of light. An explosion. Flowers in the sky.</p><p>June 24. San Giovanni, the feast of Florence’s patron saint. The city would be roaring with explosions all night long. Nobody would notice another, muffled pop.</p><p>Smoke poured out the tip of the Beretta. The gun’s metal coat shone green, white, red, reflecting the fireworks lighting up the sky. They tinted Detective Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi’s skin. The whites of his wide open, imploring eyes. Altered the shade of the black blood flowing freely from the hole freshly bored through his head.</p><p>A clatter. The Beretta dropping to the floor. Will, backing away, hitting the wall behind him. Hyperventilating. Tearing up. Squeezing his eyes shut until he saw fireworks coating the inside of his eyelids, too.</p><p>Warmth. The smell of Hannibal, overpowering gunpowder and blood and paint. Will desperately returned his embrace, scrambling to dig his fingers into Hannibal’s back. His ears rang from the thundering of the shot. It took him a few seconds to finally hear what Hannibal was whispering, again and again.</p><p>‘<em>Beautiful.</em>’</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘So, one last jaunt to Italy?’ asked Jack Crawford.</p><p>Will smiled, and let their champagne glasses clink in celebration. ‘Yeah. For a while, anyway.’</p><p>‘You know, you really make me want to go back. Maybe once Bella’s feeling better.’</p><p>‘You should, Jack.’</p><p>Jack nodded, though both men knew his wife’s cancer was unlikely to go into remission, not at this stage. Still, they were at a party – a combined celebration of the latest crop of Academy graduates and the long-awaited cracking of the <em>Il Mostro</em> case, no less. No time for doom and gloom.</p><p>‘Any special plans?’ asked Alana. ‘After your big award ceremony, of course.’</p><p>Her lipstick complemented her dress perfectly, and in another life, Will would have longed to feel her curves under his hands, taste her carmine mouth.</p><p>In another life.</p><p>‘Yeah, we’re going to travel around the country a little. Get out of Florence. I don’t think we’re <em>tired </em>of it – I know I’m not – but there’s a lot more to see in Italy.’</p><p>‘We?’ Jack frowned, then lit up. ‘Oh, your friend! The kid.’</p><p>Will happened to catch Alana’s eye at that exact moment. She rolled her eyes with a sardonic expression, and Will chuckled. Jack didn’t <em>mean </em>anything by it, but he’d never seemed to quite cotton on to the nature of Will and Hannibal’s relationship. He was perceptive – he knew Will had nursed a crush on Alana for a long time. That meant he liked women. And far be it from Will himself to have <em>that</em> conversation with him. Maybe he’d ask Beverly to clear things up, at some point.</p><p>‘That’s right. The kid.’</p><p>‘Where are you headed?’ Alana asked.</p><p>‘Er, all over the place. We’ve been to Rome. So we’re doing two weeks further South, for Pompeii and Amalfi and all that, then two weeks North. Turin, Venice.’ He shrugged. ‘Hannibal’s handling most of the planning. I’m along for the ride.’</p><p>‘And signing off on the checks,’ Alana added, with a smirk.</p><p>‘Giving a pampered kid in his early twenties open access to your wallet and free reign with travel plans?’ Jack laughed. ‘I don’t know if that’s brave or stupid!’</p><p>Will glimpsed himself in the side of Jack’s full wine glass, and took a deep swig from his own drink. The bubbles tickled his throat, threatened to go up into his nose. He smiled, and he knew he looked silly, and lovesick.</p><p>‘Probably both,’ he said. ‘But I trust him.’</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal held on to the headboard so hard his knuckles were white. Will watched the green and blue veins flowing like rivers down his pale forearms, the bulge of his biceps from the mounting tension in his body. He was going to come, soon. Will had learned the signs over the months they’d been sleeping together. Fraying self-control, a tremor in the lips, an arching of the back.</p><p><em>Tightness</em> around his cock. Like Hannibal wanted to milk every drop, greedy as ever.</p><p>The thought only made Will pound harder.</p><p>It started off as a lazy, mid-morning fuck. Unusually for both of them, they’d slept in until the sound of church bells blew in on an ocean breeze. Will was particularly tired. Every evening of this Italian journey had been filled up – first, with interviews and the award ceremony, and then, with Hannibal’s particular <em>interests</em>.</p><p>Will didn’t partake.</p><p>He’d helped set up the tableau for Rinaldo Pazzi – a deviation from the art references, an allusion to the fate of one of Pazzi’s ancestors, hanged for treason. He’d been found the morning after San Giovanni, hanging over <em>Piazzale degli Uffizi</em> from the skybridge connecting the two halves of the museum, with a noose of his own intestines that left his slit stomach, encircled the standing statue, and wrapped around his neck.</p><p>In death, as in life, he relied only on himself.</p><p>Viewing the corpse in his capacity as FBI consultant felt surreal, but Will’s entire reality had shifted the previous night. He’d struck a deal, and there would be no turning back. He knew this. Still, he’d felt a ten-ton weight in his bowels when he had to speak with Pazzi’s widow. Promise they’d catch the culprit – who, it was eventually ruled, was <em>not Il Mostro</em>.</p><p>The death was appropriately brutal, but no flesh had been taken. No direct comparison to artwork found in Florence could be made. And over decades of police work, Pazzi had made plenty of enemies. He’d had his share of tense dealings with organized crime while cracking down on drug trafficking in Tuscany, something which had earned him the wrath of the <em>'Ndrangheta</em> syndicate in particular. True, it had been in the past, and the mafia’s execution methods generally weren’t as elaborate, but Florence was going through an epidemic of showy murders. They might have been biding their time, deciding to strike while the iron was hot, trying to pass it off as one of <em>Il Mostro</em>’s deeds.</p><p>That was what Will suggested, anyway. Thankfully, Pazzi’s replacement was a lot more amenable to his theories.</p><p>The killings slowed down, spread themselves out further throughout the months, but an additional five victims were slain before they caught him. Following a criminal profile drawn up by Will, the Florentine police finally arrested Matteo di Castro, about eight months after the <em>Annunciation</em> of Violetta Assanti. A raid on di Castro’s apartment uncovered hidden newspaper clippings and printouts centered on <em>Il Mostro</em>’s case, piles of pilfered library books on Florentine art and its history. He’d been studying at the Classical Arts Academy. It didn’t take him long to confess.</p><p>Will knew he would. Because di Castro <em>was</em> guilty. Of <em>one</em> murder.</p><p>A fairly well-executed copy of Hannibal’s work, but a copy nonetheless. Even if Will hadn’t had access to privileged information on the veracity of the crime, he would’ve been able to tell it was a forgery as soon as he arrived on the scene. He could also, however, recognize the dedication of the faker. The delusion. Retracing his steps, Will knew this man truly thought he <em>was </em>the real killer.</p><p>It was a golden opportunity. Hannibal’s internship would end in a few more months. di Castro would never tell the truth, even if he came to his senses, and if he did – who would believe him, especially when the murders stopped with his arrest?</p><p>As the months passed, Will thought something would break down. Endless trials. Kisses by the riverbanks. Interviews. Delicious carnivorous meals of uncertain origin. Written reports and debriefing with Jack. Cold gelato on tired, hot tongues. The Order of the Star being pinned on his suit jacket by the President of Italy, in recognition of his invaluable contribution to ending a climate of fear. Eventually, real life would catch up. He’d not only face the consequences, but feel the weight of his conscience crash down, reduce his admittedly already fragile mental state to a pulp.</p><p>He thought he’d feel regret. Not fleeting doubts, not pity, but actual <em>regret</em>.</p><p>And he didn’t.</p><p>That was why, though he helped Hannibal clean up after a hunt, willingly indulged in the delicacies he cooked up, luxuriated in the imagined taste and smell of death on his lover –</p><p>He didn’t partake in killing. And he didn’t watch Hannibal kill.</p><p>Because once that dam was breached, he didn’t know where the flood would take them.</p><p>Will heard the familiar sighing moan of Hannibal’s orgasm, felt the hot spurts against his stomach, and hilted himself to pump his load as deep as it would go.</p><p>Heaven.</p><p>Still breathing heavily, stifling a yawn, Will drowsily pulled out and collapsed on his side, slinging an arm over Hannibal’s own heaving chest. The rise and fall felt good. Alive. Considering everything that surrounded their relationship (a term he’d recently agreed with himself was appropriate to refer to what they had, yes), even tiny details that reminded him that Hannibal was alive and present and <em>his</em> were a thrill.</p><p>It was disappointing when Hannibal inevitably slipped away to clean up, but Will understood. It was nice of him to indulge these unwashed post-coital cuddles as long as he did.</p><p>‘The shower is free,’ he heard Hannibal say, a few minutes later.</p><p>‘Thanks,’ Will murmured. Eyes still closed, he stretched, groaning when something in his back audibly cracked. ‘Think that’s my body telling me not to move.’</p><p>‘We’re to leave soon for the lemon grove.’</p><p>They were in Sorrento, where the lemon was king. Will had wondered at the choice, at first, given the area’s decidedly tourist-oriented vibe, but it put them in a good spot to visit the rest of Campania. As a base of operations, this little seaside town beat the chaos and grime of neighboring Naples by a country mile.</p><p>‘You see one lemon tree, you’ve seen ‘em all,’ Will sighed. Still, he heaved himself up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and opened them.</p><p>The room was dusky. The folding shutters blocked most of the light trying to penetrate the open glass doors to the balcony. In the distance, Vesuvius lay, dreaming. Hannibal leant against a chest of drawers, still wet and gleaming from his shower. Though Will had seen him nude many times by now, it was hard not to pause for a few seconds and take in the sheer perfection of his body, a sculpture of Apollo or a youthful David. An expert artist’s magnum opus.</p><p>He held Will’s medal, studying its detail. It wasn’t hideous, as far as decorations went. A sort of compass rose made of two four-pointed stars, white and green, edged in gold and inscribed with <em>Stella d’Italia</em>, Star of Italy, hanging from a ribbon bearing the national tricolor. The ceremony had been torturous, but Will was used to endless self-congratulatory displays from years at Quantico.</p><p>‘Soon as I’m back in Wolf Trap, that’s going in a drawer and never seeing the light of day again.’</p><p>‘You won’t be wearing it to your classes?’ Hannibal said, with a smirk.</p><p>‘Might try flashing it to Jack. He won’t get off Will Graham’s case, but he might listen to a Knight of the Order of the Star of Italy.’ He swung his legs off the side of the bed, raised his eyebrows at Hannibal. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’</p><p>Hannibal smiled. There was an unspoken titillation about him holding the medal awarded for the capture of <em>Il Mostro</em>. Something that poked at that dark creature inside Will.</p><p>‘I have something to tell you,’ said Hannibal, placing the medal back in its leather box.</p><p>He came closer to Will, knelt between his legs, crossing his arms over Will’s thighs and gazing up at him. Without thinking about it, Will cradled his cheek with one hand. Hannibal leaned into the touch, pressed a soft, quick kiss against his palm.</p><p>‘Johns Hopkins finally sent notice. They’ve awarded me a scholarship on artistic merit.’ He looked into Will’s eyes again. ‘I’ll be moving to Baltimore in time for the new academic year.’</p><p>The information sinked in gradually. Will’s expression shifted slowly from quiet adoration to surprise, lips parted to respond, then a visceral, blatant fear.</p><p>So far, keeping both sides separate had been easy. There was his life in the United States. Teaching at the Academy, occasionally consulting on a case, shuttling his dogs to and from Alana’s when he had to travel for a longer time. Fishing, late night drinks with Beverly, yearning phone calls to Florence.</p><p>And there was his life in Italy.</p><p>Sunsets on <em>Ponte Vecchio</em>, setting the jewelers’ shop windows ablaze with glimmering precious stones. Excursions to hidden artistic treasures. Learning to suck cock. Hannibal’s hands, so well-kept, yet excoriated from long years of cooking mishaps, handling artists’ tool, and</p><p>and</p><p>a draining bathtub, the water tinted pink. Late-night drives with thumping cargo in the trunk. Meals more exquisite than in any restaurant, served with a smile that spoke of spilled blood.</p><p>It didn’t happen every visit. Sometimes, Hannibal would have killed before Will landed, and that was why he’d been called in. Sometimes, there would be a dry spell. When there was, Will would hunger.</p><p>He wanted to reach a breaking point. He wanted to be disgusted. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.</p><p>Keeping both sides separate had been easy. But what would he do once the edges blurred? Once the ocean that separated them became the matter of a few hours by car, at most?</p><p>Hannibal didn’t say anything. He watched Will’s reactions with a quiet, contemplative gaze. Waiting to see what he would do. There was no trap waiting to be sprung. Curiosity. Expectation. Ever since the night he killed Pazzi, Will had been granted access to the space beyond the veil, and more than malice and poison, those were the emotions he most often saw in Hannibal’s eyes. And that detachment was often more frightening than the raw urges he himself often felt bubbling up from parts unknown.</p><p>Will’s hand slipped from Hannibal’s cheek to caress his neck, his throat, soon joined by his other hand. His thumbs rested on the hard ridge of his esophagus. Hannibal’s eyes didn’t budge from Will’s. It would be so easy to press down.</p><p>Suddenly, Will moved his hands once more, cupping Hannibal’s jaw, forcing his face further up, and leaned in to feverishly kiss him. Hannibal took the cue and pushed Will down on the bed, climbing up to lay on top of him while their tongues went in and out, like the tides.</p><p>It didn’t take long for Hannibal to be hard again. Will wasn’t totally there yet, but in this position, Hannibal’s cock nudged insistently against his own, and that was a pretty good incentive. He’d certainly become more responsive since they started sleeping together. Fucking a man almost twenty years his junior meant having to keep up. There were worse ways of doing cardio.</p><p>Hannibal broke the kiss. Cold water drops fell from his hair onto Will’s eyelids. He opened his eyes, and seeing Hannibal’s face so close, feeling the pressure and heat of his gorgeous body all along his own, his heart was pierced with an almost <em>painful</em> spike of genuine <em>love</em>.</p><p>Maybe it came from above, skewering Hannibal’s heart on its way to Will’s. Maybe it was a shared sentiment. Maybe he’d be able to say it out loud, someday.</p><p>‘Are you excited?’ Hannibal asked.</p><p>Will felt the words, the rumble in Hannibal’s chest, against his own. He knew nothing would be the same. Once Hannibal’s plane touched down at BWI, two worlds would merge. Two men would merge. Will and Hannibal would embark on something dangerous and without end.</p><p>Something divine.</p><p>Will smiled.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p> </p><p>end.</p>
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